The ground beneath the fallen, stiff leaves is frozen. The cold, brisk air invades my lungs; I exhale my visible breath while sitting on an old wrinkled tree. The sound of soft droplets that echo on the firm ground can only be heard if one stops breathing for a few moments. Those drops are hitting the ground all the way up from the tree where the sun plays his role in melting down the white quilt that is peacefully resting on the tree’s surface. A strange tangle of branches that is gently lying in the middle of the treetop has grabbed my attention. While moving a bit of creaking snow from the branches, I realize that it is an abounded nest; I hear some birds chirping in the distance. For a brief moment, I wonder what is it like to have to leave your home every year when the weather is cold, not knowing where your next temporary destination is going to be. But then, in contrary to that, the treetop’s wiggle demonstrated how the tree has only one shelter for its whole lifetime. The sunset doesn’t look so poetic, perhaps because of the livid sky that doesn’t allow its beauty to flourish today. Notorious clouds coming from the west are announcing a new white quilt or perhaps a rain; I am not quite sure which one because of the temperature. However, it is time for me to go.