My rubber soles step rhythmically: soundless cat paws padding
on asphalt. Thick, fog-laden air
parts like the Red Sea at the advent of each step.
I proceed past a new house, occupied a month ago. Children appear at an upstairs window.
Past a very empty, brooding house with a foreclosure sign
hanging in the front yard.
Past the fence where the Australian shepherd, Abby, stares with
deep eyes that remind me of Tyler’s.
Past flocks of ducks pressed against the eastern bank of the
lake, away from the hunter’s blind on the west shore.
Past a wire-formed Rudolph on a picnic table, lit all-over
with tiny white bulbs except for his shining red nose.
Past a decorative snowman with a light bulb shining inside
his fat belly.
Past plastic carolers singing silently into the mist.
Past figures of Mary, Joseph, and the predicted Messiah who
surprised the world in a stable and will return on the last day.
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