If cows know rising from their knees
in new feed, it doesn’t show—faces
of calves matted with milk grinning
with greed, speak opulence, satisfied
with rain, everyday a holiday it seems.
Horses wait at mangers, nip, kick and claim
their places early for the same leafy flakes,
from the same alfalfa field as yesterday,
as if unruly children jostling for ice cream
and homemade chocolate frosting—
like any other day. No one has told
the hawks on gliding surveys of the dawn,
nor the Rock Wren gleaning the window screen,
nor the gray wave of quail on patrol, spilling
from rockpiles, that it’s Christmas morning.
They have no sins, no savior, no gods
other than the ever-changing feel of things
that move them from moment to moment
to make the best of today—they have
no need to celebrate any other.