I held the small pebble in my clothed hand, barely able to feel its weight,
Turned it over, and drew back my arm.
Flinging it forward with the force of one small child who wasn’t very good at sports,
It streaked through the sky, and skidded across the ice, dancing and twirling.
Its merriment slowed by friction, and it stopped unceremoniously on the surface.
Even though it didn’t last forever, it was better than its former self, water, or its cousin, dirt.
I even cleared out a patch of ice for my stones, made by a shovel older than I.
a squirrel skittered across a tree branch, letting loose a torrent of snow like presents.
I watched in silence, as the flakes floated down, into my space like a donation box,
Cramming themselves into the empty space, waiting to make people like me happy.
As it settled, I grasped firmly onto the splintering wood of my donated shovel,
And considered whether to cleave them from their rightful home for myself, but I knew they needed it more.
I thought of the other children, playing in their lonesome, just like me.
Maybe I could deliver them some of these presents, maybe we could all give presents,
In a big park together, and when enough are given, we all would be happy.
Picking up my trusty shovel, and started collecting my gifts for the children,
No one was going to be a better Santa than me, with my secret stash of presents.