the snow flies from either side

he couldn't have asked for a better ride

illuminated by the moon's light

but driven forward, right through the cold plight

lines are woven through trees, down the hill

designs are carved into the ground, wait until

the sun comes up and burns the white

melts it, erodes it, it'll change the tide

but now, before all that, the board fails him this once

he should've known better than to trust

the straps unwind themselves and off the hill he goes

the moon is the last that saw him, the last to hear his moaning woes