In Swedish, it is called Göteborg.
That is my destination.
Riding through the counties of
Skane and Halland, however,
I would believe myself on a bus in Canada.
Fields of crops, red barns,
hay rolled and wrapped in white plastic,
wire fences, pockets of forests,
birds flitting about,
cows dotting the grassy fields,
creeks and ponds,
a railroad paralleling the highway.
All so familiar.
Rain continues to fall sporadically,
as it has done all day,
the distant hills an apparition
through the mist,
the moss collecting on barn roofs
giddy from the moisture.
But I am not in Canada.
I am in Sweden.
The people on my bus converse
in unfamiliar languages,
the words on the roadside signs are often
unrecognizable to my English-reading eyes,
some words have strange dots (diaeresis)
over the vowels,
passing trucks have alien designs,
the flags are missing my native
red maple leaf.
Yes, I am in Sweden.
Despite the dark sky
and the persistent rain,
I am on a glorious adventure.