There is a little old worn cabin about five miles up river from where my village sits. The plywood is rotted, the grass is overgrown and the bank is muddy. There is no trail leading in, because no one dare stay there overnight. There is no sign of life at all. Just some sort of distant memory of what used to be. You know that at one point in time activity took place there, it was a lively little home. But now it just sits. And it doesn't seem lonely. In fact it seems rather happy and content. It gets to pass into history in a way few homes do. It gets to watch the river go by, and the seasons. It gets to be tickled by the outstretching limbs of an overgrown alder bush. And it gets to be admired by a lone Alaskan gypsy as she fishes the waters outside it's front window.
