Musings From A Bunkhouse

Old house creaks at night, shifting its wooden bones around me.

Cowboys, a caretaker, a girl, a family and hunters have lived here before me.

It’s called a bunkhouse, but it’s awfully nice.

Concrete floor painted blue and wooden cupboards with square nails for handles.

A Fridge, sink and bathroom with a shower that works.

A little wood stove whose size doesn’t due justice to the amount of heat it can produce, sits fat and round in the corner, waiting for winter.

The window right next to my bed looks out on my pen of horses.

I can hear them in my sleep, grooming each other and quietly snorting.

The view from the sink allows me to wash the few dishes I have up here and watch the mountain behind the house turn a ridiculous shade of pink.

Here is my new home, here I will live and learn and ride and braid and for this season, the bunkhouse will be mine.

 xo xo Liz