Our headlights caught them stepping through the brush,
The father leading, robed in his blue black
Iridescence, the mother close behind,
Brown and plain. Sheltered between them, the child
Still swaddled in soft speckled tufts, keeping
Pace on the same path where the red fox leapt
And the hunter, resolute, tracked them beneath
The midday star. The family’s silhouette
Crossing dense foliage somewhere between
Their Bethlehem and far-off haven.
We watched them go into greater darkness,
Then slowly drove uphill, seeing no more
Than this dusty glare before us, hearing
Only gravel crushing beneath our wheels.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 34 Number 7, on page 26
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