hundbaki

I can only remember feeling my legs forward of his ribcage, his ruff standing to all sides, his ears pricked forward, the pacingness of his padding along.

svanur

How can one not fall in love with a land where you can name a male child Swan?

And why not. There they are on the pond, swimming with muscular strokes, arching their thick necks like stallions, dipping daggerish black-rimmed beaks into the water. A swan can break your back with his wings. Why not allow men to call themselves after these birds? Ask Leta -- she knows.

But I am missing my own point. The question is rather why we should not name men for the swans' other qualities: their grace, their weightlessness on water, their beauty and feathers and loveliness.

rúntur ii

Huldumaður á reykjabílnum, -bílnum. Röfluðum um ekki neitt, neitt. Keyrðum út á Nesið, Nesið. Keyrðum svo á eftir heim, heim.

Nú fer hann aftur vestur, vestur. Meðan að ég hang' í bænum, bænum. Fer hann aftur til að róa, róa. Meðan að ég labba gangstétt, gangstétt.

Svon' er rúnturinn hjá okkur, okkur. Svo hefur verið nú í mörg ár, mörg ár. Tökum rúntur hverju sumri, sumri. Og kveðjum svo að sumarlokum, -lokum.

rúntur

It would be aimless if it were not einstefna. No markmið, just the rounds from one mið to another.

Once, someone laughed at me for asking whether we shouldn't have a map with us. "There's only one road! It goes around!"

Keep an eye on the level of the water, though. If it washes over the road (and it might) then there is no way back but forward. Your only possible destination becomes the place you just left.

hulduskútan

Keyrandi norður úr Akureyri
sá ég skip prýtt rauðu segl;
Ég leit á þig og spurði
hvort þú sást það og.

Áratugi seinna eru línurnar loksins á rétta málinu. Ég man vel eftir því, að sjá skútuna við huldubyggðina á Eyjafirði. Aldrei að vita, aldrei að vita, þó það væri bjartur hásumarsdagur, sólskín og allt. Hvur veit, hvur veit.

Er hægt að vera ásthrædd eins og sumir eru guðhræddir? O, hvé mikið ég vildi trúa.

heimkoma

It's likely the smell of twenty-odd people trudging up and down two, four, six times a day. Of outside shoes left by the doors. Of round-robin Saturday cleaning and only one brand of washing fluid. Of velkomin heim and here's the mop.