Into the Fjord
Where saltwater rapids rage
and foam at the mouth;
there, where tidal currents drag
and mold silver-sliver streams,
a rowboat bobs.
Through ice-green lips the four oars cut –
onto mirror tongues that lick
the vessel’s shelled camouflage,
darker than the deep throat ahead;
a sea eagle cries.
With soft white gums the valley looms,
rock-rot teeth ready to strike
at anyone who dares enter
the sacred ice-scoured waterways;
the sky rumbles.