Down the basement of my rancher house I fly. Quickly, with haste, I enter through the sliding glass door to a concrete patio. Carefully, I seal it behind me. Winter wind nips at my cheeks and nose as I strive past my mom's herb garden. Though it seems wilteded and dead, the spring lavender buds will soon replace the sickly browning plants come late May. I wander the perimeter, glimpsing at the cold, icy sky in a wishful search of snow. Although the ground seems equally as frozen, crunching with my every step, moss still grows underneath a skeleton of an apple tree. One would think that the beehive which lingers behind the apple tree would have been abandoned, but I am proven wrong by a buzzing that I can hear even through the music of my iPod. I'd rather not stick around the bee hive, and I move elsewhere.
I spot a blackbird preening itself on an old wooden bird house I had made many years earlier. It flits delicately to the top of my old childhood swing set, as I follow after it. Plopping down onto my faded cherry red swing (the middle of the three), I start to pump my legs back and forth. The metal chains screech as I swing but once again, the irritating sound is drowned out by my music. I swing and swing until my hands are too numb to move, and whoosh off my swing with a stumble. Steady on my feet again, I make my way indoors. I wander around the deserted vegetable garden until I reach the patio again. Upon it lies a pine green hot tub which has been broken for years, but still makes a nice table for the birds. I then go back indoors away from the wispy wind, to warm myself by the fireside.