Grace Harang

My home will perch proudly atop the exposed, grass-root riddled bank of Cannon Beach, Yakutat. Its spine will be straight, a golden retriever during a dog show. Gilded mirrored windows will reflect the shy morning hue to their restless neighbor, the sea. Inside, the warm air will envelop you in rich red cedar. In the pores of the wood will linger fine dark sand. Over the distinct popping of a dry fire, the white noise of an irate ocean assailing the earth will overflow through the loose wooden knots in the walls. Whistling from the corner, an attention-seeking coffee pot will compete with fresh nagoonberry jelly brewing on the stove, a crock pot filled with a hindquarter roast from last season's doe. My little cabin will always be alive, even when its human owner is gone for the winter.