As woolen clouds touched earth and grew to fog, the sheared sheep shying, as sunlight dropped and puppy-dog wrapped its naked fur in dark, they started out. Stark shepherds crossed the wool-clad field, wool-capped and gowned, where downy grass-heads dripped their milk-white strands, slipped down the hill. Soft lambskin covered the small boyâ€™s hands, bleating; he carried his task. The town lay sleeping.
Lights danced and sang in candy clouds above, star speckles glinting in fleece. And the baby boy? The shepherds gave him a lamb.
Childâ€™s hands grow cold. It really doesnâ€™t matter anymore. He waits for the son.
For Wednesday Writing Essentials, December 9th: