The kittens Silver & Cesi nap in the morning

after their crazy outbursts & rushes,

completely exhausted, sleeping close together

in their armchair

I linger in the Great Ship of Dreams

upstairs in my many years,

listening to the wind

through the crack in the balcony door,

the fourth part of On the Calculation of Circumference

folded over my chest

The wind whispers to itself through the forest,

up between the houses on the till hill,

down through the birch grove we let grow

in one of the pastures,

past the mailboxes down by the country road,

up over the embankment and railway

between Haparanda & Luleå,

and out into the open space over Västiträsket,

to soon climb up around the masts

on Niemisel Mountain,

to disappear into the distance on the other side,

down through the Råne River Valley

The wilderness is full of activity,

in the mycelium under the moss,

and in countless other life forms

above and below and in between

The wind speaks everyone's language

in its gray-white whisper,

just as white harbors all colors

The wind is the shaman of all living and dead

on a journey through the dimensions

Time stands windblown with outstretched arms

and narrow slits for eyes, squinting,

surrounded by windfalls and the babble of brooks

in their channels