Photo: D. Waag

Underwater
By ROBB BARNITT

I skin alone through a monochromatic tunnel of snow-laden pine and spruce. I see only white and black and as the snow falls, I hear nothing.

I stopped.

The silence radiates from all directions like heat. Or rather, the silence is a form of sound itself. A Soundless pressure dimpling my eardrums but causing no vibration. I am underwater. Vertical. Diving down. I swim deeper and climb higher, the lack of sound compressing my eardrums.

I stopped.

A jay lands heavily on a tree limb. Snow sifts through branches in an uneven torrent. Bobbing. Feathers ruffled. Spines extended for warmth. A pufferfish. I stroke deeper through black fronds of pine, filtered gray light, penetrating a white vacuum. This white is both the absence of color, and of sound. Lungs burn. Limbs leaden, but weightless. I have descended above tree line.

I stopped.

At my limit, I tear off skins and zip my jacket. My ears groan under the pressure. An open, untracked white void. Snow floats down as bubbles rise. I point skis toward the surface, and shoot for a gap in the trees. Banking turns. Tunnel vision, smudges of darkness creeping in. Wind bites at my face as it silently swirls past. I am lost in each turn, each stroke. Not far now. My ears are clogged with frigid water.

I break through the surface. A porpoise in damp Capilene. The roar of the key in the truck's ignition is drowned out by my first, desperate, ragged gasp of air.

                                                                                        Next: number 3


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