Montaña

The cabin and I come to each other in patient reverence. The creaking sounds from upstairs reveal themselves to be birds, happily hopping around in the morning sunlight as it crests the mountains behind us. Possibly raccoons. The dogs in the horse paddock turn out to bark at everything, not just me. Each window waits for its turn to introduce its uniquely breathtaking view. I track time only in recording when sunlight creeps past the tops of the pine trees, when it reaches the couch with the moose and fish prints, so perfect for a morning read, when it reaches the back porch, so perfect for drinking bourbon but also everything else. In every other way, time proves to be irrelevant. 

The tick checks come and go, at will. 

It’s a fragile moment, the beginning of an endeavor. You have all of the possibility and none of the wherewithal, all of the optimism but none of the urgency to see it through. The lack of urgency is crucial: you are not here for an end goal, but for the chance to ride a wave to any of its possible conclusions. To ride a hundred waves, wherever they lead, to relish the quiet moment in the lineup, where all you have to do is stare out at the sea and wait to see what the sea will hand you as bait. 

You consider taking up fly-fishing. 

Rumor has it the creek across the field is brimming with trout.