One hour north of Oslo
It is spring morning.
I see my bus
Through my breath.

Up here it's cold until
The sun screams in the summer day
And whimpers red and spiteful all
Night;

We've barely seen it for six months.
Winter is white ground/black air;
Colour only in the cheeks of
Dog walkers
Under thick hats and wrapped in
Yards of scarf.

Life is magnificent when awakening
From annual cryo.

I smile at it from my seat.

It's almost time for my ritual.
Friday after work.
Alone.
The one beer, and the burning of
The Long Johns.