Loch Coire an Lochain

The path dies by the yard,
spurned by hare & hind.
The corrie now, its broken cliffs—

how many green men & green women
did it take
to not build a road here?

Like one fallen boulder,
a tent by the lochan
domes me:

the air’s pure
and sounds are purer still.
A bird can tweet

without a tree to sit in—
you don’t need belongings
and you don’t need selves,

and as for those of you
with giant flatscreens
I’m sure it’s all very moving.
...