The sun rises beside Suilven, above the high rough line of moorland on the skyline, beyond the rhododendrons in the garden, behind the alder. It illuminates the leaf-rims and twigs in the path of its round shining which, glistening in the morning frost, appear to spiral sunward. It looks as if the sun is spinning an orb web, netting not just the trees but all the little wings, fluttering bodiless and backlit, at the feeder hanging from the alder.
The wings are so delicate, translucent almost, vanishing as soon as they appear, returning to the sun. Is this what we want? To be drawn sunward, to lean in, to dissolve in this echo of summer warmth, this bare brightness, this love.
Lochinver, Assynt, Scotland
16th November 2023