She holds him in the cradle of her arm,
a soft, swaddled weight
that fits just right.

She intones the story.

On the night that you were born
the sky was a lovely dark
and the stars shone brighter
than any night I ever saw.

On the hill behind the shed
we heard the laughter of young shepherds
pealing through the air
like ribbons of joy.

I loved the sound of it.

They lived there in the field
under the open sky
present to the night
and outcast in community.

What did they see?
What did they hear?

Then they stumbled through the stable door
shy in their entrance
yet eager in heart.

Your first visitors, my baby boy.
Your first visitors.

And somehow I imagine
this birth story
told over and over
through his growing years.

And he absorbs it
till he is one of them,
a good shepherd.