If these walls could talk, what would they say? Walking around this old Montana cabin, I wondered what was the story here. It sits quietly on the base of the Yellowstone river, still standing, still speaking. Erie and quiet, memories blowing through the open frame. Cows pass by, and the river moving in the distance. It was hard to walk away. It invited me to linger and imagine stories of days gone by. 

Year after year

I have come to love slowly

how old houses hold themselves-

before November's drizzled rain

or the refreshing light of June-

as if they have all come to agree

that, in time, the days are no longer

a matter of suffering or rejoicing.

I have come to love

how they take on the color of rain or sun

as they go on keeping their vigil

without need of a sign, awaiting nothing

more than the birds that sing from the eaves,

the seizing cold that sounds the rafters. 

-Robert Cording