This man, Werner Aspenstrom, was born in the country and lived in the big city for years but was never entirely comfortable anywhere. That’s good. I like that. He went out into nature, as we call it: farmlands, thick forests, river valleys where torrents of snowmelt roar along. He saw the black butterfly with orange stripes alight on a pile of deer droppings. He noticed the spot of sunshine that edged its way into a clearing among great fir trees. Some people say such encounters help to heal us. The Swedish poet is not so sure. I like that too. OK, he says, they help a little. And a poem can help too, insinuating itself into our bewildered psyches like a tiny man on a distant hillside waving his arms. He wears a bright blue shirt. Is he signaling us to stop? To come over? We begin to drive in his direction, but then we lose sight of him and realize we don’t have time to keep looking. We have to get back soon. It’s starting to snow. The tunnel’s coming up; the glare of headlights; our own headlights racing toward us from the future.