Even as the tiny silver slivers of ice and biting wind force each living creature unfortunate enough to be found in its midst to seek shelter beneath the moribund cedar, the house seems to gather in on itself. Draping itself in the drab finery of the dour autumn day. It stands cold and empty, its vacant eyes facing not to the sun but towards the dark gathering of storm clouds to the south.
The little blue car, nipping along the clandestine lanes, not raising a glassy eye of interest from the ruminate cattle, its bright flanks sheltered from the brutal force of the wind by the stripped bare vines and whipped willows of the hedgerows, plunging inexorably onwards.
Then, as if to mock the tumultuous clouds, one final ray of hope pierces the sky, seeking and finding its host, a golden reflection caught like a whisper in a mirror, but enough to shine like a beacon, urging onward the little blue car, and its occupant huddled now against the storm lashing at the rear.
And the house, reaches outward, skyward, sloughing its dreary skin like a serpent rising, its dead eyes filmed no more, but lit with joy, bright with the blessed sunlight; and it welcomes me home.