December\'s morn waits quiet the kill,
a falcon keened in hovered skill.
A lark with haste o’er all that’s dead,
the way of sparrows who have fled.
The rising of the day anew
in early morning’s frozen dew.
Too late the wounded of the night,
held hardened stiff in winter’s bite.
A wolf alone, honed in, it prowls,
bone hungry pants of dripping jowls.
Hushed sikas snorting frosted air
and wary, too, the mountain hare.
A mob of crows stall into flight;
the fox shakes off the cold of night.
With time the mists of daybreak clears
into the Sabbath’s morning prayers.
Of those who rise before the dawn,
a breakfasted and kindling drawn.
The washing done, the fires stoked,
to hitching carts and horses yoked.
Let ring them bells, this day of rest;
all smartly dressed in Sunday best.
When brethren rein their horses on
to morning Mass, to hail the, One.
The preacher preached of glee and strife,
of paw and hoof, of death and life.
Of falcons brave, a sparrow\'s fear.
\"\'Tis why we all have gathered here.\"