Torchlight Skiers Poem by David Welch

It's eight degrees in January,
a frozen New England night.
Standing by a base lodge,
staring up at shadowy slopes,
gray against the icy black.
Others cluster around me,
bundled and waiting.

High above: a point of light,
red and brilliant up there.
Then another, a whole string
snakes down the slope,
turns the gray to fire
as they arc down, lower and lower,
folks start cheering.

The fire-serpent draws near,
pulls up at the silent chairlift.
Acrid smell of road-flares,
don't know how the torch-skiers
can tolerate that much stink.
They raise the torches in a circle,
Viking-style, glorious.

Fireworks streak overhead,
each burst lights up the trails
for the briefest of flickers.
My nephews run up the hill, excited,
scrambling with the other kids.
It's fourth of July in January,
and another three nights
before winter's end.