Photo Credit:  The Library of Congress flickr stream

There exists a place in Montana with mountains kissed by snow, where wild horses run free and as far as they can go.  In the bitter cold of winter, the wind cuts the side of the mountain and lifts their manes off their neck.  They guard the acres like loyal watchdogs and gracefully tromp about their home.  They are happy in their skin and do not judge the runts or the others who don’t look like them.  Trees grow with arms outstretched for some acceptance from the sun. 

There is a cabin nestled on the edge of the mountain.  Once inside, you immediately feel as if the space has wrapped you in an embrace, with flannels of warm reds, blues and greens and calico prints.  Chunky, naturally-derived furniture in various shades of wood grains can be seen all around.  After a long day of riding underneath the big sky, and a dinner comprised of chili, cornbread and warm chamomile tea, you inch far down into flannel sheets with a comforter to protect you.  A cedar chest rests at our feet with yellowed love letters and a diary filled with secrets. 

Should I be in the forest of Tennessee or the thicket of Texas or the mountains of Colorado or underneath the big sky of Montana, as long as I dwell in natural earth, my heart shall be free. 



2 thoughts on “Helena

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