He stands at the top of the hill,
His fingers rubbing together like a mini violin.
His eyes glancing around the terrain,
Plotting the path ridden by few.
He scuffs his feet along the pavement.
His eyes blink and his lips moisten.
He taps his hands against his thighs,
Remembering a song.
"He's not going to make it."
Then I hear the cold clash of long-board wheels
As they hit the pavement.
1, 2, 3 pushes, his left foot leading his right,
Braced on the long, wooden board.
The curves approach.
This is the spot.
His green Volcom shirt dances in the wind.
His face gets nearer,
And the fear fades.
I see the smile of victory.
"All right, Alysa, you're next."
I push my board under my arm,
And I jog to the top of the hill.
Out of breath, I stand there,
Glancing round the terrain,
My fingers rubbing together like a mini violin.