Cormorants

As you would expect, the farther you get from Stockholm, the more uninhabited the islands of the archipelago are: forest and rock and water, with only the occasional red house. Then you start passing the white islands: cormorant nesting grounds.

These islands are dead; cormorant droppings kill the trees where they nest. In the endless Scandinavian twilight they're almost eerie, the bleached white against the dark firs, almost like skeleton trees. And you can hear the bird cries long after the islands have disappeared in the ship's wake.