The birds knew what day it was. They even knew the very hour when he would come. We would hide in the snow-cloaked conifers, bundled in our wool cloaks, and watch them...and wait. Then, through the pines he would come, gliding along, his leather boots announcing his approach with a crunch crunch crunch, and his patchwork coat leaving a snowy wake. Around him a chorus of birds would erupt, dancing from limb to limb to finally alight on his shoulder, his cane, his hat, his arms. He’d whistle sweet wintry choruses to them while gently tossing out handfuls of seeds, grains, berries. He was my favorite Santa, for he too understood the beauty of these winged miracle -- tiny fragile feathers whipping in the windy pines and sharing their voices year round, keeping the woods alive even on the snowiest days.