Nith Bar. Men like him, unseen. The beer he can’t bother with. Wordless talk, tasting less than it is.
Deer Creek. Snow falling on trees is a sound itself. A song that sings in a whisper. A song about soft birds above alder trails, slick as enamel. Haunted in the sun that shatters off the milky sheets of grass.
Driving away. Motes of snow melting from his shoes to the floor of the car. Perfume of past time. His computer humming on the passenger seat. The seatbelt indicator glowing.
Everything’s more real if two can see it.
Isle of Hoy 