Picture This: Applecrossing the Heavens

Up the serpent’s back from Applecross, twisting, turning, ascending into lofted realms of rare light and old wonder. From where have these wolverine winds come? Hailing from no compass point but down from the overworld, they plummet on rays of light lancing the distant, smudged hills. I stagger across the lifted landscape and gaze from the crown of Bealach na Bà, confident that here stands another lightbridge, a close cousin of Bifröst, hewing the clouds into glimmering runes.

It is a speechless language drawn only on the iris, for such vistas are mirrors. We see what calls to be seen — beauty, awe, wonder, fear, anxiety, loneliness — reflections of the inner darkness locked beyond understanding. The clouds shift like sheep on the run. A rainbow glides through the mariner’s air. Wind claps the ear loud as an anvil strike. I am not done here. I wish to climb the light back to the fount and fleece myself in this beauty, that I might escape the wintry wolves loosed upon Midgard.