Around me, waves of snow lie haphazardly against trees and a large white drift rest lazily against the side of the trapper's cabin. No shadow is cast from a frozen moon and as I look to the heavens the stars themselves seem to drip with icicles, for the cold is fierce to living creatures this night. I try to ignore the sea of frozen tranquillity and float to the window and look inside. Shadows play tag across hand-sewn logs. The flickering flames of oil lamps play out strange and wonderful scenes.
Peculiar shapes move upon dusty shelves.
To the left is an ancient barreled wood stove, glowing red, sending wisps of wood smoke through minute holes in its barrel. Oval braided rugs lie haplessly on the hardwood floor as if thrown and then forgotten. To the right is a small hewn table with crude legs. Two wooden chairs with no backs or arms rest crookedly at the bare table. In an old rocking chair next to the red glowing woodstove, sits an old man.