The Rock House

I find my sleeping quarters for the weekend in Oatman, the aptly named Rock House just on the outskirts of town.

I settle in quickly, then head outside to the makeshift bar to watch the sunset. The desert scenery is sublime. Then I hear a thunderous sound, like a car crashing on the highway. I look up and instead of seeing smoke and fire, I see a herd of wild donkeys coming down the mountain side.

Just as the sun sets behind the mountains, the donkeys settle in the driveway of my weekend home. It’s magic to be a witness to Nature in action. The curious creatures nibble on the tall grasses, and check themselves out in my truck mirrors. As quickly as they appear, they soon vanish into the dark night.

Morning comes, lighting up the faded mason jars in the kitchen’s window sill. Coffee steams in the morning air as I pull my wool cap down over my ears. Adapting to this newer and slower pace of life, I have no planned adventures.

I listen to old country music on a record player for awhile, wondering if what I am doing with the rest of my life will be satisfactory.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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