· Femunden, Norway
What the snow remembers.
From the journal of the Wolf of the North · a work of fiction
On the year's last evening I walked past fifty doors that had opened for me, though no one had asked me to count. There were candles in windows, repaired fences, and tracks crossing tracks until the snow made one story of them all.
A herd stood far across the lake. I watched without moving, then turned toward home. I am strong enough to carry a beam, a child, or a frightened old man; I cannot carry every winter. But I can answer when someone calls.