Avalanche

Be it a whisper, be it a raspy cough,
whatever sets it off is soon forgotten,
the high faint rumble at first mistaken
for an airplane's passing roar, a gust of wind
waffling its way through jagged peaks and down
the steep approaches towards the valley floor
where, looking up, someone sees a cloud
of snow and thinks, perhaps a passing squall,
before dead panic rushes in, breathless
with devastation, the cold thundering roar
that builds and builds releasing now to spill
pure mindless natural force that's driven
down and down, gravity taking hold
of rocks and trees, the ephemera of a world
consumed by forward motion, blind heedless
generation laced with flakes of snow
falling and tumbling, burying in its path
arms legs skis poles and silence
smothering and heavy, deafening the peace.