Has a star formed up there?
Is a supernova of biblical proportions
ladling out spun light into a tight 
sphere cast from liquid glowing?
Because from its tarnish winks
a blade of pinkish light 
that reaches down, pointing, to
penetrate the fog of war,
and iconify a baby blue 
born to a combustible holy land.

Above, shepherds are watching,
as they always do. They watched
as the bushfire burned,
as the calf revealed its gold,
as the Red Sea parted,
as the commandments were told.
And they watch now, with rifles pointing,
an ordinance of blanched white blooms
through mansard to manger, ripping a 
grave unknown for this new born Lord.