Sunday, December 14, 2008

Luke Kicks It Like Whoa!


-Luke Looking on-


We live in sweat-stained boots for weeks on end.
We dart through little bands of bare trees
when it becomes too cold to wiggle our fingers.

We hit our heads, we slam our shoulders.
There’s a sharp pain between our ribs.

It’s been gray for weeks,
we might have seen the sun last month,
but we’re out there every day.

We scout, we shovel, we scrape.
We build, we break, we trespass.

Our boards, our bindings crack.
Our jackets snag and tear.
Our cameras freeze to death.
We get rained on.
We get no sleep, we have no control.
Our steam rises to the skies.

A lot of people wonder what the hell we are doing.
A lot of people think we are wrong
and some of them yell at us.
They scream as loud as they can that we are wrong.

But the trees and the hills and the clouds
and the snowflakes aren’t theirs to see
the way that they are ours.

They don’t paint the walls with P-tex.
They don’t scribble their stories sliding above stairsets.
They don’t grind out their defeats in the pavement.
They don’t confront winter.
They don’t float on fresh snow.
They don’t melt into the mountains.

We make all of this.
Ourselves.
It can never be wrong.

Words by Luke Sprunger