A sleepy Montana morning

The sun struggles to rise over the mountains which loom above a sleepy Montanan town. Weak rays of gray light illuminate the ominous clouds to the north. The air is surprisingly warm for November, but the wind whistles through my tires as I bike along quiet streets. Off to work before the sun has cleared the horizon.

A wind blows through the streets of downtown. A ghost wind which has cut through many small towns that morning, towns who tell tales of the mining days, of the glory days. Leaves blow in the streets, and I think to myself if they were only tumble weeds, this would be a western sight. The leaves dance around a forgotten flask left empty and open on the corner.

The coffee shops are the only stores with their lights on this early. The espresso love affair must have spread eastward from Seattle. But each cup reminds me of cowboys sitting around campfires, cup of black, strong coffee in hand. Sitting in the light of the night, cup of joe and a flask to stay warm.