So many stars. No aurora. We stretch our necks

around the darkness, trying to make sense

of space and our place within it. Below us,

the river Helmsdale’s white noise. Beyond,

a hooting owl ricochets through the woods.

Progressive rumbling. Forestry lorries, coast-bound

along the A897. We follow their lights down the glen

and into the village, briefly illuminating the fairways

of the golf club. Above us on the hill, a deer bellows 

amongst the gorse. Somewhere, a dog barks in reply.