Why must we leave? To be enrolled.

Enrolled in what? For taxes, I’m told.

We pay our taxes, do we not?

Indeed, in full and on the dot.

Can’t we delay a month, just one?

By high decree, it must be done.

And journey where? To Bethlehem.

So far away—and what of him?

Our child, I mean. My time is near!

I’m well aware of that, my dear.

Why there, and not in Galilee?

Enrollment is by ancestry.

How long a trip, from door to door?

Three days with luck—or maybe four.

And where will we lodge, along the way?

The inns have room. We’ll have to pay.

We’ll rise in darkness, leave by dawn;

Tomorrow we’ll be up and gone,

Taking the cart and the mule named Cow.

She’s slow on hills, but anyhow,

I’ll try to keep our load as light

As possible. We’ll pack tonight.

   Where are my heavy boots? Under your bed.

Where is my winter cloak? Out in the shed?

What have I done with my harness rope?

Already on the cart, I hope!

The basket? It’s just behind the door.

Food for two days—we’ll buy some more.

My hat can’t be far. Right on the table!

What of your oxen? Safe, in the stable.

And the little one, least of all your sheep?

Close by the greatest ewe, fast asleep.

When we’re away, who’ll watch them all?

My next-door neighbor, gentleman Saul.

My clothes are there, inside that grip;

Enough, I think, to last the trip.

And swaddling bands, just in case the baby . . .

We should be home by then—well, maybe.

   The sky has begun to lighten now—

That’s it, a steady pace, good Cow!

Would that an angel might guide our way!

He’s sitting in back, on a bale of hay.

Where will home be, while we’re traveling?

Where sparrows nest and swallows sing,

Where willows take root, with grasses that quiver

On windy days, whispering, down by the river,

Where raindrops glisten along the eaves

And laborers gather the last of the sheaves,

Where shepherds keep watch, so eager to croon,

Under the stars and beneath the moon.