The Fish can Sing by Halldór Laxness

Autumn had just breathed in our direction the previous evening, but next morning it was away again. It glistened on the raindrops on the grass-tufts between the paving-slabs and on the optimistic late-summer dandelions and the fish-scales in the mire; and the tansies glowed red in the sunshine.

It was on this morning that our superintendent came up from the harbour pushing a hand-cart. Jónas the policeman accompanied him. They were heading towards the churchyard. On the hand-cart lay an oblong object, the size of a man, covered with canvas. They laid this object on a trestle that rested across the benches in the mortuary; but they did not take the canvas off. The superintendent had not been home during the night, but now he arrived with his companion for some morning coffee. My grandfather was sitting in the doorway of the fish-shed mending his nets, and bade the two men good day. The smoke from my grandmother's chimney went straight up into the sky on this calm, clear, late-summer morning of eternity.