I wake as the breath of the Loch rises from the valley.  Does it get more tranquil than this.  The young people from The Isle of Skye and Ullapool are fast asleep in the main house and  I walk from the cottage upon the path through the grass towards its grand kitchen door. It is quiet enough to hear  birds wings.  

I see three shivvering dots on the landscape  and a distant  screaming  from the clouds, fills the entire sky.  The dots shoot  closer,  the screaming  gets louder and engulfs the  valley bouncing from mountain to mountain from transonic to supersonic  splitting the
sky  crashing through the sound barrier, near bursting my eardrums and solidifying my insides

The locals know when there’s  war because these torando’s  fly   even closer to the ground than permitted.  It causes pregnant Ewes to give birth to still born lambs. There’s
something allegorical  about that,  about the wars many miles away and the lambs dying here.