Another evening on the hill. Still bright as you've arrived early to avoid the weather. You approach the peak from an unusual angle, scaling a steep bank, then winding up and around through clusters of quartzite spattered with green and perse lichen. The cloud descends as you rise and by the time you reach the summit a diffuse white mantle has shrouded the cairn. A comrade stands at the edge looking west. He beckons you over. 'Listen to the wind he says', wide eyed. You laugh, empty your ears, stare out into the white.
Sure enough, you hear it. A steady tenor breath, oscillating in some rhythm you can almost grasp, counterpoint contralto bursts coming straight up the cliff, scattered and softened by the fog, and an eerie fluted whistle swirling around, beneath, and above you. You stand for what seems like hours, hypnotised by the playful, temperate wildness of it, this intimate chamber music of the mountain performed under a deadening smudge of vapour by a generous wind that's travelled miles over wave, rock and field just to play this song.
You laugh again.
Sure enough, you hear it. A steady tenor breath, oscillating in some rhythm you can almost grasp, counterpoint contralto bursts coming straight up the cliff, scattered and softened by the fog, and an eerie fluted whistle swirling around, beneath, and above you. You stand for what seems like hours, hypnotised by the playful, temperate wildness of it, this intimate chamber music of the mountain performed under a deadening smudge of vapour by a generous wind that's travelled miles over wave, rock and field just to play this song.
You laugh again.
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