Morning clouds form a dark ledge
under which the sun lurks.
Golden sky backlights rugged ridges
crowned by snowy, wind-whipped manes.
The frozen fjord is a white plain,
embraced by black rocky arms
striated by eons of wind and water.
Smoky gray fulmars huddle on the cliff face,
grumpily shifting for new arrivals
back from open water beyond the ice.
Their hooked beaks gape at each approach.
Is it greeting or threat?
Or a hope to be fed?
Maybe the constant wind knows.
© 2008 Michael Yanega
2 December 2008