Vernacular Spectacular

In the morning, when the sun breaks from the horizon and paints the sky with purples and pinks, briefly, Scotland is magic. The old gods whisper their true names, memories awaken, like tiny fires, always burning, like a stillness that never sleeps, like secrets kept. Somewhere, or maybe nowhere at all, a nymph giggles at earthly eyes that see only the greys of human existence, as hers reflect the sky.

I’m afraid that things will never seem this beautiful again.