A Hill in Portland

There is a hill in Portland. Part of the city sits on it. At the bottom of the hill is the ocean. The bay really, but connected to the ocean through wisps of icy waves and tides rushing through bare tree-ed islands. At the top of the hill there are Victorian-ish houses and monolithic apartment buildings and wrought iron benches covered with snow. And there are parents yelling down the hill. Because half way down the hill, there are children on sleds. They spin, they fall over, they use the flimsy plastic brakes when they do not need to brake, they tumble down the hill, the parents simultaneously stifling laughter and yelling reassurances.
There are snowboarders too. Carving through the packed snow, over boy-made jumps and moguls, floppy caps streaming behind, they make it look simple as they navigate around round, plastic, lid-like objects projectile vomiting toddlers down the hill.
On the far side of this hill, this amazingly beautiful people covered hill in Portland leading down to the sea, the adults have their go. Again and again they trudge up the hill and fly down, trudge up and fly down. Laughing, covered with icy debris, they are toddlers or teenagers again, pink cheeked and out of breath.