The wheel alignment needed adjustment, and my water bottle had fallen into the passenger footwell.

While I was reaching for it, a rumble echoed through the tires and looking up I saw that the road was now curving away to the left, the car pulling to the right and the gravel on either side of the pavement was bouncing up under the wheels.

A bollard thumped the front of the car and I jerked the steering wheel to the left, overcorrecting and spinning on ice. The car came to a stop sideways in the middle of the road.

Nobody was around to see what happened. I pulled over and took a photo of the spot I nearly crashed at.

I came to Iceland hoping to make friends at a local bar, hoping to stay in a village by the ocean and talk to the people there.

I failed. I hardly talked to anybody. I moved North. I stayed in a hostel and nobody was there.

I wandered between empty bunks jumping at noises that secretly I hoped were other travelers coming out of the cold, pulling luggage up the stairs.

I drove out into fields and called friends far away for warmth, and watched the gaps in the clouds for lights.

I kept moving. I decided I would go all the way around the island, because at least that felt like an achievement.

In the southeast I stayed on a farm. The woman hosting was very nice. I never got her name.

That night I went out looking for the lights but only saw the stars.

My camera became a funnel, and the world spoke to me through it, reduced to a whisper by the acoustics.

On the last night of clear skies, a low hum began between the stars and

green shoots grew from the mountains, and in my excitement to see them bloom

I reversed my car too fast and slid on ice, into a ditch.

I watched the lights from there, on the side of the highway, as people drove by.