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Snow water trickles, pools, slips down in search of more level ground. Two climbers in red jackets belay, traverse, make a pitch for the summit. A pair of golden eagles circle still higher, watch the movements below.

A damp mist shutters the gap between the hills, stamping down hard against the sodden bog. Whole cliffs of rock disappear, a simple sleight of hand. Lost. Into the silence a pithy, pinched wind comes, trembling the heather, breathing sun across the western flank pulling the hill back from the brink.

Scour of rock, scree sharps, hollowed dark momentarily trades a line of warm sun searching for Spring across the mountain.

North by north west, oboed through grassy reeds, wind sings in the mountain pass.