At the cabin

He lit a cigarette sitting on the steps up to the small house. 

The day was ending and the yellow of the sun reflected in the white of the mountains. 

Long hair and a beard, wearing an old pair of boots and jeans.  

To the opposite side of the sunset, the clouds moved closer and a storm was coming. 

He got back into the house and waited for it to hit. The only light was the stove that kept the cabin warm. 

Sitting by the window he listened and smoked and let it pass. He pulled out a pen and a notebook and started to write. 

The sound of the rain, the cradle of the stove and the burning cigarette. Ash would fall down to the notebook and he would sweep it with his hand to keep writing. 

He took the cigarette from his mouth and coughed to the side, then put it back. 

The small cabin rattled with the wind and the rain.