The stag clacks up the stony ridge to a crest carpeted by wispy grasses. Here he surveys his airy dominion. The sky, a backdrop of slate, portends coming rain. The damp air folds around the Cairngorms. He strikes a noble pose with head aloft to scent the hinds lingering below. With neck thick in anticipation of autumn’s rites, his mane bristles like a rampant lion. His roaring bellow echoes from Ben Machudi—a proud declaration of his unrivaled sovereignty. Barrel-chested and prime in life, he struts with justified haughtiness. His sienna coat turns the howling wind. Is àrd ceann an fhèidh sa chreachann. Lofty is the deer’s head on the mountain. His rightful seat remains unchallenged. Satisfied, he beds on the lee side of the mount and chews the tender grasses. Above the wheaten cradle his antlers reach skyward like barren oaks. Their branches, unadorned, quicken the heart of a gamekeeper watching jealously far below. But safe still the stag remains, for even Bran or Sceolan dare not tread here.
