The October sea glistens coldly
with its dorsal fin of mirages.
Nothing is left that remembers
the white dizziness of yacht races.
An amber glow over the village
And all sounds in slow flight.
A dog’s barking is a hieroglyph
painted in the air above the garden
where the yellow fruit outwits
the tree and drops of its own accord.
“Weather Picture” — Tomas Tranströmer