In Glen Affric



Late snow on Mam Sodhail
                  
                      lies stubborn as quartz.

The river stumbling through its gorge

                             frets like the wind
through a stand of pine.

The wind
through these pine trees

                  wears the voice of water
falling over stones.

Everything is paying homage
                   to another's origins.

That raincloud answers
                   a hidden crossbill's song.

The thicket kneels before
                                       the wren.





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