Fjord Almanac

Rain finds the switchbacks first,
combs the birches on Ørnesvingen flat,
then the seven sisters loosen their hair,
and Storfjorden takes the weight of it,
patient, the way water waits for water.

The water has gone the colour of sky,
and Skageflå is folded out of sight.
Somewhere above, a goat bell answers,
so we know the mountain is still there,
grazing on nothing we can see.

At eleven the ridge line goes out,
and something green moves in the dark.
Fishermen call it the herring's breath —
old smoke from a fire the sky forgot.

Snow keeps the short day honest,
falling straight where the wind allows,
settling on the rail at Flydalsjuvet
like a hand deciding to stay.
By half past two, the valley sleeps.