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Out the back door and down the hill. The fringe of the forest is bleak and gray. Enter in and be enveloped. The wind is slowed; yet still it stirs the boughs. Beach, birch, ash, and hemlock. Cardinals flicker. Warblers warble. Snow flutters down through bare boughs. Left behind, the bad—and good. No Santa, no gifts, no family fights. No noise, no stress, no squealing children. A moment of silence, then a bird’s song, a rustling branch. And again, the silence, the song, the branch. I move and add the crunch of boot on snow. Down the slope to the barely babbling brook, slowed and partially ice encased. Here’s my roost upon this rock. Here I ponder, not really seeing dear, turkey, quail, raccoon. They drink, they forage, on they go. Lost in thought. Not the creation, but the Creator. Jesus Christ, born this day. Emmanuel, God with us—with me and within me. God Most High become God Most Nigh. Lord of the universe in swaddling clothes. Born to die. Born to rise. Born to reign eternally. Snow—His snow—descending now at rapid pace. Snow—His-snow—upon my face awakens me from my reverie. “Thank you, Lord,” again I say and ascend the slope down which I came. Back to the bad—and good. “Thank you, Lord, for this time. Time alone in the woods on Christmas day.”
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