Along the fjords, the cocks have crowded. Sun rises to a bension of steeple bells. Where Vikings strode a mermaid glows. The day's begun. A hydrofoil gets up to run for Malmo, Gulls circle at Dragor. An ugly duckling turns to swan. And geese are listening on the shore. They listened when the long boats rode the tide west, following the sun to England with their horned loads of giant warriors who won pastures, denegeld, and a throne from which gloomy Canute implored the waves to recognize his crown. The geese were listening on the shore to Tycho's shout when his glass showed stars swimming into view at Ven. They heard the Skaggerak explode with salvos from the naval guns. Whenever Hamlet's murders spun on parapets at Helsingor are acted on the scene again, the geese stand listening on the shore. And dir not break their silence when the Danish Jews at night dipped oar for Sweden, dodging boots of iron while mute geese listened on the shore.