Leaky Buckets

  Beside my house sits a small cabin. It is ten feet wide and twelve feet long with a small wood stove in the corner and a giant window facing south at Broadway. The foothills of the Pintlers are hidden by the far ridge, but the mountain peaks shine in the morning sun. Before I built our house, this dry cabin was my home for nearly three years.  A twin bed, a coat rack, a small table and countertop with a mini fridge and electric kettle. Christmas lights twinkle permanently from the storage loft. Over stuffed bookshelves teeter precariously over the final few square feet of floor space. A vacuum cleaner props beside my dad’s shotgun and the Makita tool bag behind the door. In winter, the floor is impossible to keep clean between firewood dust, muddy dog paws and slush from my boots, so I keep a pair of indoor slippers for inside time. I sit with my feet kicked up on the end of the bed. The dog has claimed the pillow end of the bed as his. I am reading the north wall and revisiting ol