Holy Heralds
they are,
not angels proclaiming
on this Christmas dawn,
but sleepy rustlings
and voices
from fields
and barn.
White-throats and cardinals,
softly chipping
in the meadow
at first light,
hallow
the cold and cloudy
greyness
with their glad
tidings
The goats' quiet
nickering
greet the only shepherd
present
in the stable
this morning,
tending her flock in the darkness,
and humming hymns
of the One
newly born.
Awaken!
The Holy has come,
Christmas
slipping in
through the
sacred ordinary
of this
day of days,
once again.
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