A visceral wind tore through the night. It's presence was not overlooked by the trees, whose branches and leaves rustled at its delicate touch, tendrils in the night sorting the wind like it were a substance. In the darkness beyond the swaying trees, behind the falling leaves, behind the rustling grass, lie an unmarked building sepulchered in lichen and moss, its death signified by its burial in new life. A sharp howl could be heard, a din in the darkness, borne of the wind and trees. A bear tore away at an alcove with stark virility for an animal preparing to hibernate. A light layer of snow continued to fall, the same as winters past, a cold welcoming party thrown ironically by its subject and without ostentatious celebration. An unwitting colony of ants marched in and out of the old building, adorning the land in a perfect fashion, as if the land would not have been complete without the colony. It inspired a feeling of completion to look upon it, mother nature's job done well, a perfect ecosystem centered about the simple progression of time, everything having its place among giants and equal in every metaphysical way. Even the arid night sky that smiled without countenance upon the land had its place in the perfection, every bit as important as the bear or the ants. The sharp cry of the wind was as comforting and in place as a rustic air conditioner, a room silent without one being out of place and inordinary. Even deep below the ground hummed silently the molten rock of the earth, like a machine running, waiting its turn to be devoured by time and turned to waste just like the building. The building devoured by time and yet still a part of it. The stars shone needlessly on, their light not making any difference in the existence of the place but still adding something to it that without it would be wrong, somehow. Whiteness continued to cover the ground, and after time, all that was left of the place was the whiteness, its perfection masked but ever present in the world.