At the Cabin

At the cabin, time slows down. The minute hand on the clock ticking slower, slower, slower, until time fades into nothing more than memory. Minutes, hours, days, melt slowly away with the icicles hanging from the eaves.

With nothing to do, no television, no phone service, no schedule, nowhere to be, nowhere to go and nothing to be, you wander outside along the gurgling river banks. Meander through the pine trees. Collect wildflowers. Or observe the squirrels scampering blissfully atop the trees.

When the weather turns sour, as it often does, you draw a rocking chair up to the glowing hearth and dust off a book from grandfather's collection. As the winds howl, and the raindrops patter on the tin roof, a sudden flash of lightning with a crack of thunder, illuminates the room and shakes the lincoln log walls. Protected from the elements, yet encompassed by the raging storm, you draw closer to the crackling fire, and voyage further into your book. When the rain lets up, you venture outside to breathe in the brisk damp air. The scent of clean rain with a hint of sage and pine tickles your nose and gives you life.

As the sun slowly fades behind the hill, you catch a glimpse of the sunset reflecting upon the river. The sun sinks down. Darker, darker, darker. The corner lamps emitting their warm orangey glow cast shadows on the walls. The cabin creaks and murmurs as the tin roof contracts in the evenings' cool. You peer out the single paned windows. Everything is silent. Everything is still. Choked out by a thick blanket of night. All except the constant trickling of the nearby river.

Lying on the deck, you gaze up at the eternities. The Milky Way in all its glory splayed out before your very eyes. Bats swoop and dance as stars shoot across the sky. The minute hand on the clock ticking slower, slower, slower, until time fades into nothing more than memory.




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