Winters Hollow "A bitter morning"

A bitter morning

A harsh winter wind blew out of a midnight sky, roaring out of the frigid north, thrashing through the land dominated by trees. The force of wind bending the trees, whipping their bare branches like angry lashes through the still night, shrieking across the rushing river. The cold was bitter like that, seeping through multiple layers of clothing, attacking spots of thin insulation biting your skin. The sun was slowly climbing out of the deep well of night, but it was still brutally cold. Winter dulled the colours of the land in shades of brown, white and gray.

The air is crisp and frigid; a sharp, muffled sound of crunching footsteps slices through winter's rampage. A man bundled up in several layers of clothing makes his way down the freshly snow-covered trail. Breaths rise in puffs disappearing into the grey sky as he trudges through mid-calf deep snow to reach his old run-down barn. An intense vibration of velcro ripping apart rings through the morning air as a glove is getting taken off. The colds bite, nipping at his fingertips, turning them a light dusty pink as the heat from his hand quickly dissipates.

A unique frost pattern decorates the barns metal handle, his fingers grazing the cool metal for a second before wrapping his hand around it. The frost licked and nipped at his skin like a rapidly spreading fire biting into it, causing needle-like pain. The sound of the barn door screeching open in protest gets muffled by the wind as it unhappily slides open. Warm yellow rays of sunlight come wafting through the door; dust motes floating through the air disturbed by the groaning door it was almost as tho they were suspended in the air. The barn was old, dusty and cold, cluttered with ancient-looking tools; it was beautiful even as it was slowly falling apart.

A rustling movement is heard in the barn as the sunlight streams in, along with a harsh screeching sound that lasts about 2 seconds slices through the frosty air like a knife through butter. A bird with a flat face, large panicked eyes, and a small sharp beak appears; it is primarily white with a tawny yellow shade of colour mixed in, along with its feathers being freckled with dark and light specks. In contrast, its eyes and beak are encircled by a heart-shaped facial ruff of white feathers rimmed with tan feathers. The man admires it for a second before another long screech echos through the brisk air, its wings stretching out, prepared for flight. Dust flies off the wooden rafters spreading through the barn, almost clouding it in a sea of brown.

The man falls out of the doorway, hitting the hard frosty snow, his bare hand dipping into it, feeling it stick to his hand. It's soft but loose and wet; it feels like a frosty-cold peach puree. The owl rushes out of the barn-like tail on fire into the chilly morning air disappearing into the tree-covered landscape. There is a briskness to his movements that will melt snow underneath, slowly sinking him more profound as he pushes himself to get up. The snow crunches underneath him as if it's complaining about his fall, and he makes himself onto his feet, shaking his hand to get rid of the flakes that are mending to his hand.

A shiver racks through his body as he glances at the sun seeing it peek out from the tops of trees like it's waving hello; a heavy sigh leaves his lips as he walks into the barn. He pauses in the doorway once more, stomping to get rid of the white ice snow off his clothes, scanning the barn for any more surprise guests. The wind is howling behind him, snapping branches against the roof of the old barn causing the structure to groan as he continues on his morning routine.