klekja út

This must be what I get for eating such oddly-hued eggs. I feel something hatching as I pass the fragrant grove on my way to the train, and by the time I reach the transfer station I have scratched out a handful of dactylic lines on the back of a crumpled receipt. I promptly forget about them, but they no doubt continue to flutter about behind the scenes of my conscious mind. The evening turns out strangely, but not unpleasantly. I am left reflecting on the fine bones of birds and the soft nap of down.