Another winter has come. Another season of cold, then warm, then cold again, loosening my joints and connections, hastening me towards my end.
One day I shall collapse, my roof fallen in, my tenuous walls crumbled to bits and pieces, suitable more for firewood than protecting my innards.
But for now I still stand, offering a leaning place for wheels that no longer wheel, a growing place for mosses and ferns, a shelter, however bare, for the occasional critter that might wander in. Or fly. Yes, sometimes they fly in.
It's a good thing they have feathers. I'm so cold inside.