The hollow & empty-handed Haparanda train’s
twenty-two-second passage through the pale dawn
down among the trackside scrub
reaches me as sudden testimony
to an alien species’ spindle-shaped ghost passage
on motives unknown,
in a rushing sound
that rapidly develops
into the throat-singing-like stratification
of a screeching noise,
deepest kargyraa bass & skull-splitting falsetto,
punctuated by seven cold-hardened metallic hacks
through the curve –
only to sink away at once
in Doppler’s reverse order,
until peak-noise & final rush
subside into tinnitus’s private mimicry
of the aliens’ Fennoscandian doings
up on the railway,
in the swift dissolution of the swift apparition
into the normal state of the northern day,
which then lies there simmering
in Niemisel’s dappling daily day