A few days ago, I opened our front door, stepped outside and felt it right away. Something had changed. Winter hovered in the air, a different smell, sense of life, state of being. Nights are dark again. A storm embraced shaking streetlights. In front of our living room window, a whirlwind danced down the hillside and climbed on a roof, swirling up strips of sod. Afterwards, I drove to Oyndarfjørður, the village on the other side of our mountain. A journey through broad landscape and green brown, following a small road. At some point, I passed the temporary lake. A hollow close to the slim stripe of asphalt. Filled with water, sometimes more, sometimes less. Wind skimmed over the gray blue and created patterns. Mossy stones riddled. Serpentines remained silent.