A Goat’s Carol

On Christmas Eve, embers glow,
the edge of sleep says — leap;
through frost-laced panes, a chorus sings,
a pining psalm, a chorale of — maa’s,

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Like bells tolling, they call me.
On frozen grass, my feet glide to
my cuddling goats making frosty plumes,
their baying fills the cold, still, moonlit night.

They make for me a cozy nest,
my world dissolves into this mess,
within easy reach of my banana chips,
we sing carols, our voices blend.

A humble space,
where starlight softly streams,
moonbeams dance their silvery prance
and our sacred feast, of offerings so small,
become God’s blessing to us all.