Translated from Norwegian by Robert Hedin and the author
Migration
Suddenly, hundreds of birds break out of a hole in the sky. It’s an air ballet for migrating birds. They must’ve been rehearsing for months. Each one knows what to do. No confusion, no accidents. It’s perfect, completely different from my life. Well, not quite. The birds have many problems on their flight south. Collisions, navigational errors. Some fall asleep in midair. They have no travel insurance, no consulates to turn to. They must make do with what they have. A pair of wings, a deep contempt for winter. It’s not much, and they pray for more. Good winds. God on their side. Too much.
The Tundra
The middle-aged couple lived for this: looking at houses for sale. They’d discuss the price, if the neighborhood was right, whether it was time to move again. They studied maps and local history all night, packed their things in boxes marked kitchen, bath, closet, only to repack everything later in their new house. Moving was like starting life all over again, something they just had to do: give up the law practice, drive the dog team into the vast tundra. But the current real estate market limits them to only moving things around the house. “Honey, do you think this lamp goes better over here?” He turns and looks out the window. In the street a man walks hesitantly through the snow, as if he doesn’t know where he is, where he’s going. “It looks good over there,” he says. “I like it.”