A Dove Waiting On Christmas

Gray overcast clouds cluttered the sky, leftovers of Saturday wind and rain and cold. I scanned the yard for the birds and squirrels, so often scavenging fallen flower seed and stale, dried bread. In among the fallen gathered leaves and branches, where the night winds scattered autumn's remnants and their residue, she huddled, brown beige fluffed with piercing eyes, appearing beneath the holly, nibbling on some fallen berries and sedum seeds, a dove sat, alone and soltary, eyeing her surroundings, quiet in December's cold. Perhaps she sought a long-lost mate, succumb to the harshness of the season, or waited on the warmth of a rising sun, or just listened for the gatherings of other creatures here, in the safety and confines of the garden, now at rest or perhaps, she waited - on the joy and celebration of the season. Was she recalling the stories of old, ancestral stories of the dove of peace? Was she familiar with the prophecies, sagas told of a king to come? Was she only one of God's many creatures, created and loved in their simplicity, images of his love, the pleasure of his countenance? Patient, she settled in the embrace of the season, recalling all her mind knew. The encounters of food and mate, love and care provided throughout her life, the warmth of the winter sun, the shelter of the fallen leaves, the hope and promise of spring and new life to come. For now, as she sequestered herself in all of nature, she held out for the signs. The images of a slowly rising sun, a star-traveling east, the journey of a young husband and wife, expecting the old prophecy to be fulfilled. Waiting on Christmas arrival, she knew well, he would come, the innocent babe in a manger, in a war-ravaged city, where Hope would reign once again. In that quiet solitude, she prayed, she would take flight again and announce to the world, peace was coming, open your hearts, welcome him with your arms.