Durango, Colorado

The frontier is a sea of fog, blue-green in the faltering sunrise, aspen mountaintops looming through it like an august chain of islands in the haze. And the air is thick with heady dew, and resounding eagle cries of breathe, breathe with graceful swooping dives into the valley cloud on such a morn.

I sit on the porch with an old spiral notebook and a mug of black coffee. Rocking the wicker chair with a gentle silent shiver, pulling the afghan just a little tighter. Listening for the familiar river babble just below the ridge.

I left my troubles with Wilco in Farmington and never looked back. Oh, what a thankless job. Sure, the money’s good but the work isn’t, and the people are worse. He can have it. Colorado called me by name, and the air, and the morning, and utter perfectness of it all, and the gold… sign me up, hombre.

The ceramic mug is warm in my hands, the aroma welcome. This here is a blue jean town, and I’m a blue jean man. The sun’s almost up now, slow and beautiful, and I have killing to do.

View this story's 1 comments.