While back there’s a house—detached, extended, wrapped in a brick skirt with French doors—here sits my log-lapped, shallow-roofed, shingle-topped chalet. Ahem, shed. Pine, mostly, with the odd hint of hardwood.
I write, think, lie, nap, and brew here. My hands are warmed in winter by what radiates from the faux-wood stove here.
Shed life enables life—outside cultivated are saplings of varying genetic brands: birch, oak, chestnut, and buckthorn. Ready in autumn for release—to be rooted in the local wooded wilderness. I’m programming a patch of the world to be a longer testament to my short existence.