Colorado Gothic
The mountains are to the west, the plains are to the east. You know your place in the landscape, and no one speaks of the divide.
The weather is fickle, and there’s nothing anyone can do to appease it. In one day the sun shines hot, it snows and sleets, then the sun shines again melting everything. You have to wear layers and layers. You don’t know how many.Â
The smell of death means snow’s coming in from Greeley. You appreciate the warning.
A shrill scream at night from the forest. Maybe a fox. Maybe a mountain lion. Maybe one of them.
The smell of cold and the quiet of winter means all the dangerous creatures sleep. But the snow still tries to kill you.
Keeping a dead man preserved in a tuff shed is cause for celebration.
The line between brewer, pot grower, and alchemist is a thin one. You’ve learned to be wary of those who dabble.
The oxygen at this altitude is scarce. Lowland visitors beware.
The state burns all summer. You remind yourself it’s a cleansing, a blessing. You sigh relief when the flames stop short of your street.
