Beneath the midnight howl, the icy wind stirs amid the branches making them groan. The leaves have fallen, and the trees stand proud as if their golden-brown skin was their glory all along. 

The dry, crisp cold air smells faintly of musk and smoke, the full moon disappears into the deep black cadaverous sky, and breaths rise like white puffy clouds, signaling a frigid night. The frozen wind heightens your senses and brings about aromas of generational nostalgia. The ice had a diamond-like glow despite no sunlight and hugged the cabin as if it was on a mission, and the fragrance of the ice was like sticking your head into a freezer—crisp, wet, cold yet musty, and sweet like blossom aromas from a burning candle.

From the haunting sky come the first ice crystals skull, white yet delicate and each having its unique pattern, water in its most artistic form. Snow brings a gentle hush to the land and cloaks the forest floor, invigorating the smell of decaying vegetation, moss, pine, and snowflakes, somehow carry the leftover scent of freshly mowed grass. In the frigid, wet air, the distinctive smell of a wood fire wafts aromatically given one a sense of warmness like a well-fermented molasses rum, and a faint ghostly howl is heard in the distance. According to folklore, the howl is that of a hellhound, a black dog that meant bad luck, and if you saw the dog walking away from you in the forest, it meant death as it was walking away with your soul.

Seasons and lore will come and go like old friends, and like the time, we cannot halt them.