Dead Winter

The cabin sits against the forest wall hidden from human site, it stands alone isolated in the dead of winter, the cold has a jagged edge things crunch twigs snap, upon a sparrow's landing the freezing wind brushes painfully across the cabin like an artist, whose hands are brittle with decay forcing the branches to scrape along the upstairs window like fingers trying to get inside. the cabin creeks, showing its age as it settles in, for a long winter outside, the wind continues to show its fury as the cabin's walls whistle eerily, to see whose listening the clock chimes downstairs For now.... we are not concerned about the footprints, leading to the back door they are of no consequence at the moment but in a few minutes, maybe less they will be. the cabin stands alone hidden, isolated in the dead of winter no one can hear you scream the deadbolt turns....