Dave Bonta captures a single moment of sledding in just a few lines, and the whole thing feels like one quick rush downhill. It begins in a cold, shadowy spruce grove at the top of a hollow, a place that seems almost wild, with its "north-woods chill." Then the speaker sits on a runner sled and shoots out into a sunlit field. The shift from dark and cold to open light is the heart of the poem.
The most striking image comes at the end. The speaker's shadow stretches out ahead like a witching rod, the forked stick people use to search for water. Here it seems to sense "every bump and dip" in the ground before the sled reaches it. That makes the shadow feel almost alive, a guide leading the way.
The mood is exhilarated and alert, with a touch of wonder. The speaker doesn't say "I feel thrilled," but the speed, the brightness, and the sense of being carried over the land show it.