The flying fish rise in silence,
at thirty-five hundred feet,
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,
but their pinions sing for Svalbard.
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