Descriptive writing contest

Winter seeped through me as if I lacked any walls at all. Straight to my bones, it chilled me, and left me breathless. The walk was always the same, uncomfortable, cold, and bare. I don’t know why I always did it, but yet I continue on leaving my footprints. I was walking out to the old abandoned baseball field; it backs up to a pond and eventually the fast moving river of my small town. It can be quite the sight in the summer, but at this time of the year, it is rather bland. The field itself is rather creepy, with its abandoned dugouts. Inside one of them, there is a pentagram, and some rather vulgar messages about watching people, and pissing on chairs. No matter when you show up there always seems to be fresh prints, but no one around. I believe all five of the dugouts and the storage building has been broken into. Now facing the west is the best part since there is a great outlook over the pond, and it faces the sinking point of our sun. Old chain link fences litter the ground, mostly broken down and left to rust. Once you make your way around those, you are free to the nature. Or, a few naked trees at this time of the year. Tonight, I did not come for the sunset; I came simply to walk. The sunset of course will be an added bonus. I have learned that there is no point trying to breach the wall of plants surrounding the pond. It looks best from a distance anyway; it’s covered in a green algae that smells like an earthy rot. I start at the scariest dugout; it has quite the negative energy to it. I suppose it’s all in my head from reading what is written inside of it, but I still swear I’m being watched when I get anywhere near it. Although I continue through the eerie parts, I cannot help but notice the three rolled balls of fresh snow. It’s as if someone started making a snowman, but merely walked away. Well, it is actually exactly like that. I examine the building before I approach the snow, and it appears empty. Its chipped green painted walls are the same, and that disgustingly huge wasp hive is still there. Trash litters the inside of the it; I couldn’t even name what any of it is besides the McDonalds cup. At the top of the stairs, the white door has been chained shut, and spray-painted again. The kids in my town must love Nazis judging by all the swastikas they painted. As I buff myself up, and throw away the continuous fear, I walk closer to the wet snow. It’s newly fallen, and I remember watching it fall; swirling around with big fluffy flakes. Sometimes I imagine the snowflakes as a million minuscule ballerinas; the thought first came to me on a sleepless night. It was quite beautiful, I felt surrounded by their grace and the tiny kisses they left as they melted on me. The snow in front of me now was trampled in rather large prints; it looked odd next to my tiny footprints. My boots leave a more distinct print than his did, more lines to define the shape. The snow is already rolled into correctly sized balls, so I picked up each of the two smaller ones up and stacked them onto the biggest. Backing up a bit, I admire the snowman. It’s oddly shaped, and missing arms and a face. It’s a little small too, but I’m not wearing gloves so I put aside thoughts of making it better, and take a picture. Looks like we share the interest of walking in the cold, lol. I like your story, Smart.