Upon the air the moon is high
The darkness floats into the night
As it runs across the sky
And gets into a flurry fight
The snow then comes sparkling down
Shimmer, glimmers as it falls
And drifts upon the silent town
In the hay and in the stalls
The air is cold, their breath is hot
They stomp their feet and breathe a neigh
They wear warm blankets that we’d bought
As they bed down to rest in hay
The town is silent as it rests
The snow looks charming, at its best.
–Amber Hopwood
