An itch in my ear
moves
to the center of attention,
while the Vikings rise
out of the pages
of the Icelandic Tales,
setting sails
at the back of my mind

Murray Perahia
performs Bach's English Suites
on the bottom floor;
the dangling chords tiptoeing
up the spiral staircase
as I rise out of The Ship of Dreams
like someone resurrected
to A) apply a drop of boric acid
to my ear,
and B) get a coffee refill

The day has commenced,
moving at a steady pace
under open skies

The house watches my doings
like a cat;
still, attentive, ready

I feel like a piece of machinery,
run by artificial intelligence
as life runs its course
and I recall biking from the Jogersta Farm
out to Stigtomta Airfield
at age 10,
to use my saved-up allowances
for a ride in the fore seat
of a dual-control Bergfalke sailplane,
pulled out of the grassy field
into the heavens
by a roaring single-engine Piper Cub,
Södermanland suddenly widening below me
in all directions;
lakes, forests, gravel roads, vehicles creeping like beetles,
and in the distance the Baltic Sea,
disappearing into the glare of the summery haze;
the wheezing of the wind dying down
as by magic
the moment the pilot disengaged us
from the rope that tied us to the towing Cub
and turned left
to spiral upwards and upwards
in a great bubble of a thermal;
the temperature sinking
as we were rising
6500 feet
in July of 1959

The house is yawning
with rooms open wide,
gurgling its pipes
as I flush the toilet,
lighting up my skull
with the intense light
of sun on snow
through its windows
as the 3rd of March 2020 flows
full blast
through Northbothnia