I couldn’t pick him out in a police lineup.

Only his eyes briefly caught mine

and I felt a warmth

when he sat beside me

burly, chocolate brown hair,

dressed for the season.

He spoke with a thick accent

rhythmic and singsong

unmistakably from the very north tip

of Scotland.

Betty Hill? Smoo cave?

He nodded.

I told him I loved the place

where the gulf stream warms cape wrath

where cows walk free because of some favour they did

the townsfolk years ago.

Even the mountains they call Hope and Loyal.

Animated now tipped on my seat

I described the World War II fighter jet

that rusts in an open hillside grave there.

The time we spent there was

the best summer of our lives

and always would be, I exclaimed.

Though we are not together now I mumbled

and sat back straight in my wooden seat.

He nodded the way people who know solitude

often do with city dwellers.

Especially those who leave the one

they had their best time in life with.

This burly stranger had turned the key

the lock exposed my heart felt bleeding.

Was it really not better to admit my mistake

and soar high on hope

embracing the mountainous terrain of real life

of real love. Together.

I never saw the burly man again

Not sure angels ever call twice.