God tur!

... and it's certainly not finished, but I'm not feeling very prose-y today. And this way you can see how Norway is getting to me. It has no title, which is a big no-no. Maybe you can suggest one!

Her umbrella looks like the bones of a bat
with wing skins flapping in the cold rain.
For weeks, the frenzied music of an accordion player
has followed her around the city, as if her whole life
were lived under a circus tent. Today, he wears
a stocking cap and winks at the girls who rush by
on their way to the platform, angling for an extra
five kroner. Forty years now the traincars
have been red with a blue stripe down the side,
a rushing national flag. Slowly the city spits out
sleek gray carriages instead, with doors that open
silently, like portals to a faster world. A black cat
dripping with tiny beads of water runs her body
along the girl’s black boot. Then she rubs herself
against the pant leg of the boy standing next to her.
It’s almost promiscuous, this gesture, and the girl
puts up her hood to keep the boy from picking up
this thought as it exits her ears. She watches the cat
tip herself down onto the track, step over the rails,
and spring back onto the other side. Three, maybe four
days now, and no sun. It’s only October—
weeks before we live through the longest night
of the year. She braces her boots against the platform
as if she can actually feel the planet tilting more sharply
than in any place she’s lived before. Meanwhile,
the cat and the accordion player enjoy the rain.