At the mountains west of Karaupp, winter.
Mountains didn’t use words like fjolla or kuksugare or fitte. They didn’t say things like “sug min kuk.” They didn’t call people freaks.
Mountains held him in their laps, carried him, and in seeing him this morning, they, his true mothers and fathers, stretched their arms in the dawn’s shower and welcomed him in their folds. Light dripped down their faces and splashed their shoulders. They awoke, that forest of precipitous mountains, in a veering morning, a retracting and exploding morning, and with many a deep breath, invigorated themselves with the winter air; grinning, they spread their wings and launched themselves into the blue of some other world, some other world where the nascent sky prepared itself in black mystery.
The light collected in the high basin, spreads and pools in the snö, that glittering, dazzling diamond snö in this, themonth of…
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