I point to the lake we came to.
Summer, your ankles stalked in brake
and yellow goldenrod,
red sumac in your hair,
aura of mosquitoes washing in emptiness,
silence’s low flutter,
lighting the edges of things.
Here, then, is winter.
Atmosphere’s distant talk mixes
over pale unworldliness of ice,
yields to its close-fitting jacket,
buttoned with rocks,
their white-pointed backs,
stepping stones, shining with arrival.
Isle of Hoy 
Fine descriptions including the subtle mosquito one.
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