Tracks on Damp Stone

I edged past the metal threshold of the balcony door and paused to study the terrace floor. The smooth, grey tiles stretched ahead, cool and slick with morning mist. A crisp breeze drifted past. Planting my poles firmly into a narrow groove between the stones, I gave a steady push. My skis slid forward with barely a whisper, tracing two clean tracks through the damp sheen. When a crisp fallen leaf drifted across my path, I angled my skis to nudge it gently aside, coming to a balanced stop right where the sunlight warmed the stone.