ormurinn

Two days ago I peeled a small orange, taking the rind off in a single, long, fragrant, spiralling S-curve. I had placed it, stretched out, on a windowsill, perhaps in hope of some fortuitous shaft of sunlight that would complete a memorable and photo-worthy composition. None has come. The rind has been lying pith-down on the dark wood, and over the course of a day it had dessicated and curled upwards, like a cobra rearing up and showing the scales of its belly. Over the next day it curled over backwards, as if the object of its attention had skipped behind it, mongoose-like, looking for opportunity to dive teeth-first at the back of the serpent's head. By this evening it had arched further over and down, and now it is bent entirely over on itself, the round center of one spiralling end (with the scar of the stem making a single eye) resting against the other like an alchemical serpent biting its own tail.