“Follow where I go,” he says,

And I follow twin tracks in the snow

Curving and banking past the evergreens,

He turns, lightning fast, and shoots

Swift as a serpent through the air,

And it thuds home, I cannot see where.

“Stay on your toes!” he orders, and with

A swish of fir branches, he is gone.

I follow, tracking as I can, as if one could

Track a god; it is only that I know he wishes

To be found that I have any hope.

For the God on Skis wants to be tracked,

Expects to be found, waves a casual arm

With the glint of teeth in a grin, nearly

White as the snows through which he glides.

He is not remote, and he has no patience

For our hesitant reverence. “Come on!”

I hear from down the hill, and on I go,

Because every hunt is an adventure,

And to be chosen as his companion even once

Is worth all the chilly toes in Midgard.