As the sun approached the horizon,
it warmed my back
and dodged, momentarily,
behind clouds. Red rocks
faced yellow-ribboned clouds
and reflected—without mirroring—
the sun. Like a movie screen
or backdrop for this play of light,
the rock face absorbed
and reflected rays,
highlighting first one shade
of red, then another,
and occasional blues.
A foot steadied the gas pedal.
Meanwhile, on the radio,
Satie’s Gymnopédie No. 3
provided the score.

At dusk one chilly night
several car lengths
ahead of my truck,
I saw a red motorcycle.
Parallel to that red motorcycle,
another streak of red
raced alongside,
shining like liquid iron.

The two immobile yellow bars
of the median strip warned:
“Do not cross here now.”
The two immobile yellow bars
of the median strip warned him:
“Do not cross now.”

The oncoming traffic of Route 66
charged like painted war horses,
barreled along like freight trains.

With a lull in traffic,
the red blur, rivaling
a motorcycle’s speed,
stepped out of line to cross
the yellow stripes.

I saw him now
for what he was:
a fox in flame
orange coat
looking wise,
looking cunning,
and in his jaws, a prize.
For in his jaws he held
a plump prairie dog
by the neck.
And when he shook it,
the little dangly legs of his prey
kicked against his fiery mane.

My truck pulled into the gas station
as the fox darted with his kill
across the highway,
the sidewalk, the parking lot,
and bolted down a side trail,
towards his den,
& his wife & his little ones,
8, 9, 10.

Pumping gas,
I heard a train blow its horn,
both loud and shrill,
and hammer down the rails.
I saw prairie dog sentries
keeping watch o’er their tracks.
Blurry gray faces peered over steering wheels
and drove past the gaudy neon of Route 66.
But somewhere, safe in their den,
the little ones feasted on the bones-o.

By day I believe
By night I doubt
There is no dawn
Without the night.

Within each bird
a cathedral rises.
Struts and trusses
support airy bones
like arches
buoying domes,
bone and air sac
transposing oxygen
into song and flight.

Whether welling
from catacombs
or soaring
from a clerestory,
music springs
from every source.
It matters little
whether notes
are improvised
or rehearsed.
What matters
is to share
your voice.

A rainbow trout with illuminated
throat swims in the brook.
You are transfixed
by the trout you hooked.
I turn the page
to read my book.

His face
is what they searched for,
the wise men and the shepherds,
the fishermen and the tax-collectors.
And long ago,
your family
also painted
Icons of Jesus,
but still we fail to see his face,
the face that will carry us
over the sea.

Sister asked for castanets.
I brought a tambourine.
“I was raised in Columbia,” she explained.
“My grandfather was from Spain.
He taught me to play the castanets.”
Together we rehearsed the songs
that would stitch together
the various scenes
of the Christmas pageant.

The innkeepers stood solemnly behind
painted cardboard doors.
Window cut-outs framed their faces
as they explained: “No room at the inn.”
Yet all three of them,
gathered here at the Shelter,
knew what it is to be homeless.
One offered a stable.

Some sheep stood on two legs,
and some on all fours,
but all clearly recognizable
by paper masks and hilarious bleating.
The shepherds were a bit tipsy,
most likely not too dissimilar
from the shepherds on that holy night.
The drummer boy passed out
just before the play started,
face down on the sidewalk,
but Sister revived him
with a concoction of milk and egg.
He carried and played the brilliant blue
cardboard drum that he had made.

Sister asked for castanets.
I brought a tambourine.
“Mary will stand here and hold baby Jesus
while we sing the Magnificat.
Do you know the tune?” she asked
as she hummed. I did not know the tune.
“Mary will dance as we sing,” she said.
Her hands cradled castanets we could not see.
Then she kicked up her heels and danced.

Jesus stands
for his baptism,
his right hand
resting on his chest.
Had Mary raised
her hand
heartward,
a Child would rest
here on her arm
out of harm’s way,
held close,
Child’s ear cupped
against her breast,
holding all time
in one moment’s frame.
In frameless icon,
I seek Jesus’ hand.
Hold me close.
Hail heaven’s heartbeat:
Hug your broken child,
bathed in the light of baptism.
Behold, a son.

If we should be like him,
then we must be like her,
Mary, who like a heifer,
lay in the straw
to give birth.

Mary, looking at Jesus,
saw her own image
reflected in his eyes.
And this is what he asks of us –
that in looking at others,
we see ourselves,
and Him.

Jesus, when you were born,
your mother Mary
wrapped you in swaddling cloths
from head to toe
lest your kicking feet
brush too hard against the wooden manger
and lodge a splinter in your foot.
Already her heart suspected
the weight of the Cross
and the price of the Resurrection.