A field of Santa Clauses
Huddle together, whispering
through pursed pink lips.
It sounds like whistling.
When they sway, the song
changes, suddenly a requiem
of clouded breath uplifts
the sheet of fresh snow,
which tendrils toward the sky.
The moon: stark, white, whole,
glints off their beards, illuminating
a sea of rosy cheeks and wet red
noses, but their eyes remain
shut, turning coal into diamonds.
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