“The page opens to snow on a field: boot-holed month, black hour
the bottle in your coat half vodka half winter light.
To what and to whom does one say yes?” – Caryolyn Forche

Up the dale the wind from the loch,
Finds the stubborn and stoic Scot.

He does not flinch nor does he complain,
E’en on the threat of snowy rain.

The roiling clouds, on pallet gray,
Suggest it is a winter day.

“Nae, ’tis summer and I am stoned,”
“But not b’whisky,” he peevishly bemoaned.

And setting forth, in imaginary ice,
He sought sweet refuge in Highland gneiss.