Lyons, Colorado-oh yes, Lyons!-and there it sits, the Lyons Home, sprung from the hands of the notorious Scott Mason (you’ve heard the name… or you feel like you should have), built, bought, and held onto ever since, like a curious artifact of ambition and angles-hexagonal, no less! Not your cookie-cutter box, no sir. A geometry lesson with attitude.Two bedrooms! One and a half baths-because why settle for symmetry when you can have intrigue?-and then the garage, the garage! A cavernous, echoing shrine to the American vehicle: two large beasts and a smaller companion tucked in like an afterthought. Electricity? Naturally. Gas? Of course. Civilization hums here.But wait-above the garage! An expanse, an openness, a stage set for possibility-your possibility! Paint! Write! Stretch into a yoga pose at dawn, or teach Pilates to the faithful, or let the music throb through a dance studio that didn’t exist until you decided it should. It’s yours-the air itself seems to say so.Half a mile from town-close enough to feel the pulse, far enough to dodge the nuisances (floodwaters, for one-this place rises above all that). And behind it? Ah! Boulder County open space-untouchable, immutable, a green decree from the powers that be. No building there, not now, not ever. Instead: wild turkeys! Yes, actual turkeys, strutting, visiting, as if they, too, are curious about the hexagon and the humans within.0.17 acres-compact, yes-but humming with potential, the kind that whispers, “Go on… expand… dream a little.” Just not to the west. Never the west. The west belongs to the turkeys.