He was sitting in a chair at dinner
and a wave washed over him.
Suddenly, whole beaches
were simply gone.
1947. Lake Superior. Last year.
But the cabin, I said, that one,
the one with the owl --
don't you remember?
Nothing was left. No feathers.
We remained to him in fragments.
Why are you so old, he asked me,
all of a sudden?
Where is this forest? Why am I so cold?
Please take me home.
Outside, the neightbour mowed the lawn.
It's all right here, I said.
There are no bears.
There's food. It isn't snowing.
No. We need more wood, he said.
The winter's on its way.
It will be bad.
