I live behind a locked gate.
Not a high tech, auto lift, let me in wearing dry clothes and carrying a latte, kind of gate.
Mine is a set of old green bars with a padlock and key.
When it rains, I get wet.
When it snows, I slip on ice.
In the winter neighbors are few.
Late at night I look over my shoulder for coyote and bear and bobcat.
When the sky is clear the moon rises over a tangle of pine and cedar and aspen.
On a dark night I crane my neck and circle in place, entranced by glittering stars set in the inky wash of night sky.
I’m a curmudgeon.
This is my retreat.