Passing in Caithness

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Passing the

dry-stone

domes of

burial cairns

five thousand

years old, but

reconstructed

seconds ago

the abstractly

situated sine

waves of

water, the

acres and acres

that simply

extend

– a ruddy

tinted green –

to a horizon

with the revolving

propellers of

wind farms

pointing to

a possible

alt future

perspective

enough

to offend

the jaundiced

piggy eye

of the latest

Emperor-Elect

to whom all

lands, even

this independent

minded locale

are supposedly

meant to

pledge allegiance.

As you

decelerate to

let another

driver pass by

raising your

hand in greeting

I notice

a cow

on the edge

of the sky

chewing over

the thingness

of things.