This Is The Life

I love mornings like this in Crested Butte. The fog seems to cling to the streets, and there's this urgency to get a coffee in an old sweater, loose and fraying a bit in the spaces that have been a little over loved. It's early and in a town like this no one is headed to work yet, it feels like not a sole is moving, even inside their houses which steam around the edges from under the snow, everything is still. Maybe it would be better to sit in a coffee shop, let the warmth hold me in close, but alone on this porch I don't have to talk, the cold air feels good seeping through the top of my jacket, crisp and messy, alive, in my hair. Who knows when I will get this again. This is the life.