The Sheep on the Hill

On a day when there was a kind of electricity in the air and everyone and even the animals seemed to be more than themselves, a flock came over a hill.

A sheep paused there.  By some magic of the day his senses were heightened and he could see far down the plain.

He could see the green and the gold of fields and forests and hills he had never been to.   He could see the shimmering bustle of far off little towns.  There was the marble gleam and gold gleam of distant palaces.

A strange wind was blowing from off the plain and he smelled rich spices and the sea.

He heard in the wind strange echoes of the sword clash of heroes.  He heard distant whispers of the rumble of applause as great statesmen spoke with fervor their great speeches that would change their nations forever.  He heard the tinkle of cymbals under palms, the roar of a hunter loping down an arctic slope after game, the echoes of great symphonies.

He looked down at his hooves on the dirt of the path and the way an animal can sometimes, he cried.  He was just a sheep on a hill.

That night a great star appeared and the sheep saw in a manger the Son of God.