Pretty quiet around here: Redux

Once again, the winter resort has fallen silent.

The front walkway is overgrown with weeds, the pool, once teeming with excited drunks, now lies empty, its walls like stoic monuments watching over an equally stoic valley. The windows are shuttered, and the shingles on the roof slowly rot away in the harsh summer sunlight.

Dry, brittle leaves flitter about to and fro on the back dining patio, while the massive French doors leading into the rustic lounge sit closed and locked, waiting for half-naked women and hopeful fools to once again run back and forth through their welcoming frame, trying not to spill their white Russians when they trip over the threshold.

Footprints on the beach have long since faded away, replaced by long strands of dried seawead and the eratic, skittish trails of hermit crabs looking for their own resort. The volleyball net swings gently in the warm breeze, and the blanket, which once tossed topless women aloft while Eddie Vedder watched in amazement, collects dust in a closet somewhere, folded like a linen napkin in a fancy restaurant.

The shelves of the bar sit empty, naked as Bunny just arrived home from her vacation in Palm Springs. The mirror reflects an army of forlorn barstools, sitting up-side-down on top of the tables.

A marmot emerges from its burrow near the lowest ski lift. Seeing no bathtubs surrounded by candles and whale songs, he ducks back down below the earth.

We're working on a history report, not a winter resort report.