The Buachaille Etive Mor, Stob Dearg. Pools of blue ice refelecting the sky, everything steeped and sunken against this east wind. Serpentine roots of heather curl round smoothed boulders of granite, skelped lichen crusting. Sun shadows as the sky quickly darkens, rain clouds gather. Drawing lines and shapes of moor and rock. Downhill I follow a burn, only a hands width as it travels, carving small canyons in the peat. Here the water falters, slows then drops, cascades, ox bow bends, divides and splits again, smaller and narrower bronchioles over the moss sponge lungs of the mountain. Looking back, snow catches on high ledges, drifts in gullies, zig-zagging. A golden eagle swoons the southern flank, a herd of red deer watch as I scratch a likeness of sorts.