The dawn sky wore Maxfield Parrish blue.  Crescent moon and her north star companion faded clean out of sight like St. Nick in the old rhyming story.  A pair of crows cawed, shifting to the next fir treetop.  The cat and I observed this from the upper deck railing, as we also observed fresh buck tracks in the snow.  We waited for the sun, and when it came it was everything you imagine it to be.

At Yuletide, we want to give the whole world a plate of food and a mug of hot coffee, a homemade pastry and a gleaming new belt-buckle.  It’s the morning when wee ones wake in wee hours and scuttle from their beds.

Sing to me of hearts broken open, lighted windows and trimmed hearths.  Sing to me of high spirits and rare form, of hands made warm, bellies filled, thirst quenched, people lifted from cold back alleys and laid down in warm feather beds.  Sing of bright colored lights and pomander balls, old-fashioned postcards hanging on walls, voices ringing with bells and chimes, songs of peace from Christmas times, until another Christmas – come at last – becomes another Christmas past.


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