||Making His Rounds
A fresh dusting of snow rested on the ground, muffling every sound in the frosty sylvan landscape. His tracks were the only interruption in the smooth perfection of the forest floor, tracing the path of his journey from town to town. The night was cold, but bundled in his big fur-trimmed coat, Santa didn't even notice. The moonlight made it almost bright as day, giving each breath he took of the crisp, clean air a gleam against the dark sky. As he topped the hill with packages in tow, he looked out upon the village below, imagining the slumbering children tucked beneath thick woolen blankets and warmed by the glowing embers of the fires that twinkled in the windows of the tiny stone cottages. He plodded on into town, stopping only briefly at each home - just long enough to carefully place each gift and to envision its eminent opening and accompanying glee – and, of course, to consume whatever tasty treats were laid out for him, before moving on the next home and the next town.