On this frozen Sunday morning,
I communed
with Aidan,
and Caedmon,
and Ninian,
not the saints of ancient Ireland and Scotland,
but my goats,
who like their namesakes,
also arise before
dawn
and set themselves to
their daily
even
in the harshness of January.
And why not?
God is present
in their
bright eyes
and nuzzling muzzles,
in their soft greetings
and the expectant gaze
that invites,
and expects,
my response.
Amid the simple practices,
carrying water and replenishing hay,
scooping droppings
and filling feeders,
these most mundane,
most holy,
of tasks,
the grand God of the Universe
comes close and sits
among us as we
attentively,
gratefully,
joyfully,
begin our day
together.
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