Winter Night in Bozeman
As the child cries, the stars spin through designated orbits and the village hounds all have their snouts to the wind. The snow on the ground, prismatic diamond dust, refracts a swollen moon. The snow moving tractors prowl the frozen mud lanes, blades engaged in the relocation of congealed sand sherbet.
In the entire neighborhood, only one human sound can be heard. An infant wails into the night. A pleading gesture to anonymous forces to make the discomfort go away; the creatures of nightmare, the interruption of breath, the rumblings in her belly.
Mother does her best, shares her body, nurses the child and still the young daughter continues her lament, her judgment of the universe. Father rises, swaddles the girl tightly in the soft blanket tortilla, hums a few notes, holds the child close and rocks slowly in the moonlight.
Slowly, progressively, the girl calms. Her wails diminish to broken sobs, then gentle whimpers until the quiet stillness of sleep returns. The parents settle back into their dreams, as the subtle breath of winters’ chill caresses the night.