Sleeping Tired Cottages

Thoughts around noon on a Father's Day.

the inside of a log cabin bedrom, light pouring in faintly from a window but dramatic enough to cast chiaroscuro the room

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Our chocolate lab is sprawled all-fours out, half-asleep but constantly on watch as the baby tosses a bit and breathes heavy out the first signs of waking from his nap. The sharp angles of the top floor of a log cabin hotel, thick pillars and planks of wood cast deep shadows over one another as the sunlight seeps in through the curtains.

Through a set of french doors and in the next room over, occupying the bottom half of one of two sets of bunkbeds, the Lady and Winter while away their afternoon similarly sleeping out a solid good nap-time.

Tristan and I are freshly back from a “Father’s Day hike”, you could say, not just because that happens to be the holiday, but also because it was he who invited me, making it feel more like a present than just another day’s walk in the woods. Before that, service was attended with all six of us in tow, circling a table with a particularly good view of the Indian Peaks over a variety of eggs, sausage and bloody marys.

Back here at nap time though, nothing but the sound of Middle Boulder Creek mimicking a window fan and the occasional bird whistling for attention can be heard. A day’s worth of life already before noon and an afternoon of who knows what ahead.