if only i were born a female ingmar bergman.
hildegaard stood alone on the rust coloured meadow that carpeted the mouth of the bothnian gulf. she breathed in the salty baltic air. soft purple fabric lapped at her calves. at this moment in her little scandinavian cottage several kilometers inland, the butt of a gun rapt angrily on the door. the shelving that held rows of heirloom china collapsed. she turned to see the storm clouds closing in. somewhere in a fishing town she'd never seen a young man with october eyes was laughing as he threw his hand in on the card table. she would have loved him. and that was enough. a handful of turqouise sparrows pierced through the dull sky. children squealed in the distance. the rain came down. the dirt pathway behind hildegaard climbed up and up toward the darkening horizon. the bare footprints she'd left washed away. a low horn bellowed forth from a group of danish ships. she smiled and began to wade out into the warm sea for a swim.