Among the winter stricken pines lies an old motel; It’s wood is stained a darken coffee hue which melts down the inner wrings of it’s timber. An ongoing blizzard berates the abandoned building, drowning it in snow.

A single pine cone takes cover inside on the now frigid hardwood floor. It stumbled in through the smashed window burned yellow from time. It lays there gently swaying with the breath of wind leaking in from the winter storm outside.

A mouse skitters on the rafters in the attic. The mouse stops momentarily, sniffs a damp crate, and continues on it’s journey where only it knows the unplanned destination.

A fox stumbles in the lobby acknowledging the front door loose from it’s rusty, copper hinges. Head swinging like a pendulum, it explores rooms devoid of their owners. An empty hat rack stands inside a closet. A couch with it’s innards exposed sits in the corner. A pillow with feathers flowing out sticks to a leathery, decaying bed. The cold fox finds a spot of unspoiled rug and curls into a ball before letting it’s warm dreams drift it to sleep.

Blanketed in deep snow, the motel resists the thick clouds, rooms remaining silent under the persistent storm. Trees around shed their snow from the nasty, freezing air as winter moves it’s blizzard elsewhere.

The old log motel sits among the winter stricken pines, providing shelter for it’s grateful inhabitants.