And there were in that same country
shepherds abiding their flocks by night,
all suffering from a nasty case
of Christmas nostalgia.
Because this year the sky was dark,
no multitude of heavenly hosts,
no midnight (shazaam!) fire-plumed messenger,
no angel feathers dropping from glory like snow
aflutter with joy from the Messiah's small, hot breath
stirring the atmosphere,
no alien encounters,
no stars to follow,
no new promises made to a tired earth.
Just silence and animal dung.
Just trying to retrace what happened
when we quickened at the Savior's coming
that week at church camp,
holding hands and singing Kumbahya.
Omer and Oded
are sitting a few yards off,
scratching their groins and belching up figs.
And there was light, and then there was darkness,
and behold, it was good.
For the Spirit of the Lord hovers over the surface of the deep,
and he is musician enough to know
the importance of a caesura.