Owl Cabin Alone


The logs in the stove are as damp as my February self and click then hiss in protest as they burn. I sit here on a folded wooden blanket, eye-level with the fire and just a chin above a cup of tea. The floor is off kilter, sloping east, and holds the smell of bacon (but not my bacon, just the memories of other visitors). Outside the windows, the more quiet-than-quiet of falling snow.


I’ve done more exciting things this month. I could try to tell you about mountain passes glittering in sunshine or the arch of a tailwater trout fighting against monofilament. I wish I could write for you the twitch of a puppy’s tail as he digs his nose into the snow.

But no, this is the only time I’ve let myself still and sit down to write. So instead I give you the hollow whumps of combusting pine, the smell of chamomile on cold air and the heaviness of lashes on languid lids.