Mountain man

A small cabin sits on the end of the windy road up the mountain. Ive seen the man that lives inside but never spoke a word to him. Sometimes I walk up the trail and stare down from the small hill at the work lit cabin windows. The old man stokes his fire as I happily freeze outside. He brings my imagination back. Where did he come from ? Who was he? To me he’s what a man should be. Every morning I see him walking down the hill and tend his cows. He leans down and hurls the bundle of hay on his back. Every year the weight of the bales brings him down a little Lower. But he always stands back up. His leather gloves grip the string of each bale. He throws the hay over his wired fence to the waiting cows. His herd always seems content. Almost as if the they have trust that each morning the he will be there. That connection with life is beautiful to me. As the light glows and flickers through the window I watch my hot breath freeze in the night air. Still lost in my mind I wonder if this man ever had love. A family? One must have had something in his life to hold on too. A memory of love to play back in his mind. How could life out here alone be bearable without such a memory. I imagine I’m his son. We fish together and he holds my overalls as I trek wait deep inside in creek water. He shows me how to bait a hook and string a trout. As he sits at his maple wood dinner table he glances out his window with a smile. For moment I see who I want to be. Happy in nature. I don’t feel alone ever in these woods. Maybe that’s the thing that draws me to him. A man with only himself to rely on. One who keeps order in his life.