Far to the north of the Arctic Circle,
too far perhaps to fit into the world,
is a mountain,
several miles high and many leagues in circumference.
At the foot of the mountain lives a colony of crows.
Once in every tenth generation, a crow
flies to the summit of the mountain
and sharpens its beak on the rock,
wearing away a near-invisible fragment of stone.
When the crows have worn the mountain into the sea
the first day of Lent will have passed.