In a Swedish Village in Late November

In a Swedish village in late November, clouds move in blue sheets across a grey sky. The yellow
cross outside my window is still, swept in blue folds. From the forest I hear the dry echoes of
wood being stacked. Through a walkway of a timber barn an old man carries a pail. He turns his
head briefly toward me, turns away and steps into his house.

I go for a walk. Three brown horses graze in a little pasture where someone has laid out straw
and oats on the frozen ground. The horses eat but do not look up. Every house around me is
painted red with white trim. I feel sure they are empty, but the windows are filled with the
ornaments of the living. A light shines in one window where a man is working alone at his desk.
His hands move in ordered, purposeful silence.

Beyond the village, the frosted forest floor fades into a white haze. A dog runs up to me,
muzzles me but does not bark. I hear two women talking and a strange fear turns me back to my
cottage, across the frost-bound grass with careful footsteps, which roar into the still, grey air like
my occasional muttered whisperings, in a Swedish village, in late November.


—Eric Nelson