Together, we come together. I am the weather and you are the land, the peat, the pine and the heather. You stand there, all rock and swept-back tawny, like tanned leather. We meet along the bleak ridge at night and then again, sometime in the dell. I can change from kind to cruel, but you never do. You are true, like the rut, like the birds that call, like the course of rivers that once defined the way you look, your rise and fall. Wild, now kept, then burnt better. We both look to winter.