On the crosswind leg of my circuit
I’m skirting iliotibial discomfort,
navigating my cranky knees
over the shoulders of the grey-green hill.
When at thirty-five hundred feet
the flying fish rise in silence,
wind shielded in a near gale,
until they skein by my side.
Condensing like a myth
born from Maol’s upland ocean,
in crisp naval monochromes,
three dozen barnacles bank as one.
They vee downwind southerly,
leaving me grinning like a loon.
It’s only a practice ring around,
for their pinions sing of Svalbard.