Silver flakes dance softly to the ground. Some are caught by
the strong, outstretched arms of the trees, others make it the forest floor,
which is already wrapped snuggly in a blanket of snow. The air is brisk and
quiet, nothing to be heard except the occasional whisper of wind, and the
crunch of snow under the padded paw of a wild animal scrounging for a
last-minute snack before they slip into a much-desired nap. Winter falls
quickly on this sleepy home, the birds leave their now empty nest in seek of
warmth in a foreign land, and the usually lively paths are barren and
untraveled. The vivid greens being
replaced by the mystical sparkle of white, mounds of frozen fluff covering the
sharp edges. The only sign that anything lives is a single column of grey smoke
that grows steadily in the distance by something so out of place it must be in
the perfect spot. Its bright red walls nestled comfortably among the towering
evergreens. Its frosted windows glistening back the pale moonlight. The quiet
air filling with the sounds merriment and laughter as the smell of Christmas
softly coos its soothing song to anyone who will listen.