Cleaning my small house,
the fields swept by rain
clouds shifting slowly

I put on rubber boots
and walk the neat path
around the island

the green woodpecker
laughing in the distance
anthills warming in the sun 

Snowfall again
several days now,

footprints
covered
in layers of white,

no small bells
ring clearly
in these tracks,

yet I continue
along this faint trace
over the ice

My friends say
I live in a shack
I don’t take offence,
it suits me.

It sits
on the side
of a small hill,
with pines
and bedrock
outcrops behind.

My porch opens
to the southwestern sky,
over the field
through the alders
the lake
sometimes glitters.

And before closing the door
a slight bow

My eyes discern no horizon
our research ship swaying 
over the banks

aw aw-lee
aw-aw aw-lee

waves of song
long-tailed ducks
in their thousands 
yodeling,
as they dive for blue mussels
 
our hydrophones

picking up
harbour porpoise clicks

In a Cessna 337, photographing
Baltic grey seals

bracing against the door
with no seatbelt
in a steep turn
the door suddenly flies open

maps and papers
whirl through the cabin

600 feet below—
rocks and foaming skerries

Peter grabs me by the waistband
and pulls

A cold spring night
we huddle together
with Elza and Selga
who joined us
in the tent
for warmth

by day I am
tightly secured
at the top
of a tall spruce

eye to eye
with a hovering
dragonfly