Slides, skims, cuts, carves across brittle ice.
lacing a skate on each foot snugly, standing unsteadily, ankles like noodles, teetering on the thin knife's edge. each tentative step is a step of faith, of off-centered imbalance, vertiginous. But when skate meets ice there's almost no stopping the nearly frictionless motion. the hollow clacking and brittle breaking of ice as the blades plough through smoothness, an oversized etching. fine ice dust sprays out in arcs and fans scatteringly.
smelling the cold and the snot running from his nose, there's a little boy warmly ensconced in thick layers of puff, standing wobblingly at the edge of the ice. Beneath him are two knives—one strapped to each sole. He's holding onto a chair and staring out into the vast expanse of the lake, echoes of other revelers reach his ears from all directions. the chair is his only connection to stability, and he's feeling its solidity, trusting it to help him stay upright.
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