On Love's Birthday

By two p.m. we were already calling it
a "nice Christmas".  The evening before, 
friendship and love had filled the rooms.
When we had put the ornaments on the tree, 
no one had drunk more than enough to be jolly.
That morning gifts had been plentiful, 
most of them right-sized and appropriate.
Now it was time for a walk, the children had decided, 
so all of us, including the dog, trudged out
into the snow, and for a mission we thought more greens
on the door would add to the festive spirit.
By the time we had found what we wanted in the woods, 
the gray of a winter afternoon was deepening to dusk.
We sensed the darkness coming on when we turned homeward, 
ready for the warmth and hungry for the later feast.
Just up the road the dog was digging in the snow
and as we came to where she was, she plunged 
with a snarl and her jaws clamped down on an animal 
hidden from our sight.  Blood stained the snow
no Christmas red.  She crunched on the bones
in the fur then dangling from her mouth.  One creature
died into another, one flesh became another flesh.
We older ones read questions in each other's eyes.
The children clutched our hands and walked silent.
When the dog caught up with us again, she wagged her tail, 
a full belly the only change that had come into her day.

        - Norman E. Oakes (1920 - 1990)