Claire Scott

It has been December for months
dark days and darker nights
an abyssal zone, no savior in sight
no ox and ass snorting in a stable
no wise men slogging from the east
worried about being late
sneaking sips of strong drink to stay warm
no crumbs of starlight in the sky
showing the way
as December’s teeth sink in
but over there under the olive tree
can you see him? right there?
a shepherd boy tending his sheep
wearing a wool tunic tied with a rope
playing his wooden flute
faint notes floating through the night