Storm clouds soar above the glen, while a seam of blue opens at its edge and lets the sun slip through. It falls on a single mountain and sets it glowing.
Below, the moor’s grasses lean in the wind, and the heather smolders in rust and violet. A ribbon of track wanders out of the foreground, past stones furred with moss and puddles that hold small reflections of sky, and bends toward the loch and the dark green wall of pines on its far shore.
The track is a record of everyone who has come this way. It follows the shoreline the way water does. Out here, the light is a visitor, and the land seems to know it and to shine all the brighter for the short time it stays.
