SUNLIGHT floods through a gap in the canopy, illuminating a clearing on the forest floor. In the spotlight, a robin hops, then flits to the low branch of a hawthorn to sing its autumn song, a couple of berries glowing like rubies in the shaft of sunshine. A treecreeper clings to the scaly bark of the Scots pine, pecking and climbing in bursts, seeking tasty treats. Dappled light dances in time with the leaves and the breeze, and shades of gold, tangerine and rust flutter and fall.

Perhaps it sounds like the opening sequence to the latest Disney creation, but it’s showing now at a Scottish woodland near you, free and glorious. Autumn: a time of harvest, of taking stock, of gathering and storing reserves and preparing for the winter ahead; a time of remarkable beauty.

Zoom out from this scene, and here’s another. Two stags, silhouetted in the dawn mist, their necks thick, their tongues lolling, walk parallel, bellowing. Neither backs away. Each has his harem to guard, so head to head, antler to antler they go, in a majestic test of muscle and might, their clashes and hoarse roars echoing through the glen. The drama, the noise, the smell – the striking physicality of this display of dominance – is something to behold.

Rutting season. This is Scotland's greatest wildlife spectacle: the red deer rut, and it's happening up and down the country, in estates and forests. Testosterone-crazed stags and bucks roll on the ground before locking antlers to prove who's boss. Each opponent is willing to stake all on this fight. And despite the brutality, both opponents possess a certain grace – usually.

Often the weaker will give in quickly; other times, the defeated can emerge staggering. So exhausted are the combatants, they can lose a fifth of their body weight from the exertion. Scotland is home to the largest population of red deer in Europe, and October is prime rut-watching season. Dawn and dusk offer the best chance of witnessing this alpha showdown, and some wildlife tour operators even offer red deer rut safaris.

Across the pond, in a season of fists and yellow bouffantness that would surely have Keats weeping, two mature stags are readying for the rut. Get the binoculars out and on first appearances, one looks the stronger: a fluffy Irn-Bru mane, a cocky strut and dance, a big, blow-dried coat, a brash bellow. His territory stretches from a big white house, across cities, plains and mountains. All this stag wants is dominion, power, control – to be top dog, leader of the pack, king of the jungle. The victor will emerge to rule the territory for another season.

On closer inspection, however, it becomes clear that this particular stag ain’t made in Scotland fae girders. Watch closely, and you see that the other stag sees this too. The strawberry-blond stag has shown himself to be ego and foam, not muscle – the cheapest and most disappointing of sofa fillings (with not a duck feather in sight).

So deluded is he of his own superiority, all Goldilocks can do is roar the loudest. This, the stag arrogant enough to have insisted his name is attached to whole tranches of land in a country far from home. Another fortnight of this prolonged, parody rut, and we’ll see if this mature stag emerges victorious or defeated. May the best stag win, though some hinds would be good. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez surely has to make it inside the White House one day. We need our visionaries; our strong and principled leaders doing it for all the right reasons.

Hopefully the reign of divisiveness and intolerance – of xenophobia, racism, homophobia and misogyny, of urinating on international treaties – is nearly at an end. I remember four years ago an American friend telling me: don’t worry, he’ll get himself impeached within 90 days. The real concern isn’t the stag himself; it’s the number of people who blindly follow. The disquieting thing isn’t so much that a pumped up megalomaniac narcissist can be so ridiculous; it’s that a significant body of people actually buy it, and are persuaded. Here, the whole thing’s like watching a cartoon, with the most ludicrous caricature villain.

And so back to our Scottish woodlands in all their autumn majesty. Back to the creatures that roam our wildernesses. Back to our forests and glens. This year as any other, they offer a starkly beautiful tonic.

The woodpecker drums a hollow roll as the endlessly comforting smells of woodsmoke and damp decay waft and register, while feet find their way through the carpet of leaves. 'Tis the "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" after all.

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