Racing the Firebird

I perch at the peak of the mountain,
like an eagle’s eyrie,
ready to plunge down the slopes, plummet
at psychotic speeds,
hoping that the wooden skis
don’t just snap in half
like a pair of wooden toothpicks
broken against a dragon’s tooth.
I waddle to the edge,
where the peak ends
and the slopes begin.
I look
seeing the length of the run
and pray my legs don’t give out
and I descend.
 The icy air howls
but it doesn’t matter
the phoenix inside burns,
awakened by sheer speed.
The slope of the mountain increases;
the phoenix
stretches out his wings
and screams
wanting to fiercely blaze in the sky
burns through my veins,
coursing through me
like a raging river of fire.
The snow blurs by my eyes
and I barely glimpse the jump,
but the phoenix does
and he tucks in his wings,
diving,
and we jump
soaring through the icy air
melting all fears away
with the fires of recklessness
and the certainty of death.