Stunned by that sky moving masses of water and spilling not a drop, I let the day pass as a dream does, not touching the ground, not recognizing the bounds matter sets on a stride or a breath, aloft where I saw those birds who were alighting in bare trees and singing all the cold afternoon. The day burned out in red that was not fire but the crystals of ice that once—no, often—were beads of sweat that caught then and then again as this evening in other the sun's fleet light and shot it out transformed. Oh how the birds fled to their nightly refuge! I stayed to see the few stars to escape the crowding clouds. Air so fresh it could make you laugh, then sigh. It was the air all along I know now.
by Tomas Tranströmer
There are stark winter days when the sea has links to the mountain areas, hunched over in feathery grayness, blue for a moment, then the waves for hours are like pale lynxes, trying to get a grip on the gravelly shore.
On a day like that the wrecks leave the sea and go looking for their owners, surrounded by noise in the city, and drowned crews blow toward land, more delicate than pipe-smoke.
(In the Far North, the real lynx walks, with sharpened claws and dream eyes. In the Far North where the day lives in a pit night and day.
There the sole survivor sits by the furnace of the Northern Lights, and listens to the music coming from the men frozen to death.)