three small stones

Three little things that have somehow gone unmentioned in the course of this winter sojourn:


The sign at the end of the allé, near Hringbraut, is made of two posts with thin strips of metal bearing names bolted to them, with narrow gaps between them. In a high wind, the air catches in the gaps and whines and sings, and the whole structure becomes a harmonica. The unwary passer-by making for the busstop in the dark may be startled, thinking that she is hearing voices or the playing of flutes.

Glitský. Eerie, uncommon, opalescent clouds high in the chilly atmosphere. I have seen several. I still do not know what they are called in other languages. They look like something you might see if an oily film were imperfectly cleaned from the membrane of the sky; a smear of fat from the flesh of a salmon, perhaps, or a thumbprint.

I encounter again and unexpectedly a dog whose acquaintance I had made on a previous trip and find that he remembers me and is pleased to see me, smell my hands, lick my face, and rest his long bristly jaw in my lap.