Lifeless trees and tall brown grass engulf an abandoned ranch house. Enshrouded by a sky of textured grey, and cold like a granite tombstone.
A cold, gusty wind whistles across the prairie, and views are sacrificed for shelter. This tiny spot, squeezed between a barbed wire fence and a gravel road, is pleasant because it is a refuge.
A stove doing its one simple job, warms me. Even though invisible, the flame lifts my spirit like a campfire.
Burrowed down low, and surrounded by tall grasses, I settle, relaxing into the spot as if it were a nest.
Peeking over the grass tops to the road, there is no activity. Nothing passes by but wind, roaring in fury.
My coffee cup is held directly above the stove. The invisible flame warms my hands, as the coffee warms inside. For a few minutes, this desolate place is a cheery, warm cabin. Then both fuels are consumed, and I am left shrouded in grey with nothing but wind.
There is, to me, something poetic about your description of your brew stop Chris. Also, I sense your appreciation of simple pleasures. How nice! Hopefully, you had that roaring wind at your back as you rode home, too.
ReplyDeleteI did have a tailwind going home. It was a sort of rear quarter, and so much quieter on the trip back.
ReplyDelete