In the land so featureless everything looked the same, 

smelt the same, where the polar bear with cunning 

concealed her black nose on the hunt, the otherwise 

 

dark-haired husky had a white head to hide her smile 

against the snow. Her master threw more treats 

when in a melancholy mood – brain-filled fish-heads, 

 

rainbow-hued offal and the like. She grew sturdier 

than her dark-faced brothers and sisters whose happiness 

was as evident as their salivating tongues were long. 

 

They had to make do with dried, baby-seal ears 

and narwhale jerky. And still they stayed happy. 

Their smiles as wide as a Beluga’s seemed, as obvious 

 

as the Aurora Borealis. She learnt hiding your happiness 

was easier than faking your sadness, even when a master’s 

melancholy loved company. The white-headed husky 

 

had no words for snow, unlike her master who had dozens 

and dozens in degrees of nuance. But she made up for it 

with her barks. Even her barks were white and blent with the ice.