Boring Old Cabin

“This is going to be BORING,” declared Franklin as we started up the Platte Clove Road. “Stuck in this old cabin with nothing to do.”

As if in answer, the sky darkened as we reached the top of the clove and pulled the car into the space beside the cabin. The minute after we went inside a thunderstorm commenced its performance. Kuky clung to the wires of his cage in terror. The downpour sent muddy rivers pouring down the stone steps.

We are now living up in the clouds where the thunder is manufactured. Each new clap sounds like a huge plate of metal suspended a foot above your head being hit by a baseball bat.

Later, as Jeanette and I settled down to our books and Franklin to his DVDs, the mice commenced a ballet performance, scampering out from spaces in the wall. And then the moths found their way through the windows and circled around the single light bulb. I flailed at them to no effect.

When I went to use the wastebasket a scampering sound told me that a mouse had fallen in and was trapped inside. I carried him across the old kingpost bridge, a few hundred yards away on the other side of the stream and let him go. Time will tell if he finds his way back.