At the cabin
He lit a cigarette while sitting on the steps of the small house.
The day was ending, and the yellow light of the sun reflected off the white mountains.
Long hair and a beard, worn boots and old jeans.
On the opposite side of the sunset, clouds gathered as a storm approached.
He went back inside and waited for it to arrive. The stove was the only light, keeping the cabin warm.
Sitting by the window, he listened, smoked, and let the storm pass. He pulled out a pen and a notebook and began to write.
Rain on the roof, the steady hum of the stove, the burning cigarette. Ash fell onto the page, and he brushed it away with his hand so he could keep writing.
He took the cigarette from his mouth, coughed to the side, then put it back.
The small cabin rattled with wind and rain.
