He was the eldest of the shepherd band,
and because of his dimmed hearing
the angel choir had been but a droning.
While he was aware of the brightness,
it seemed as if the sun flashed for a moment
in the middle of a typical, uncomfortable night.

He’d lived too long,
seen too many supposed kings come and go,
too many hailed prophets rise and fall,
to get too excited about the “angels” words,
translated for him by his younger, excitable colleagues.

“Wolf” or “lamb”–what difference–
too many alarms sounded over too manty years.

Still, the strangeness of it all left him curious,
He would watch the sheep (best he could)
while a chosen contingent trekked into town.

He waited, pondering.

When they returned–
filled with even further confounding stories–
he decided he would make the slow day’s journey himself,
staff to steady him,
winter sun to warm him,
aching hips to humble him.

As he drew closer,
something–intuition? the wisdom of the old?–
stirred the gray hairs on the back of his neck:
he sensed the approach of danger
(lion? thief? arrogance?).
What–or who–would threaten a newborn–and why?

He found the baby, as the others said he would,
and as the child’s tiny, perfect fingers
wrapped around his calloused, gnarled thumb
he was young once more:
innocence, peace, joy, possibility, hope.

He heard the angel’s song this time:
“Glory to God in the highest,
and peace to all on earth.”