I hear the angels, high in the hills. Up among the trees, the ponderosa pine and Black Hills spruce. Down through the snow-patched meadows, the counterpanes of brush and rock and long stems of cold, brown grass, forlorn above the ice. I hear the angel voices in the overtones of the wind through the buffalo gaps. I hear them along the frozen streambeds winding through the needles, down from the mountains. I hear them proclaiming the advent of the Lord.
In a sense, of course, to talk of angels in the wind is simply to construct an allegory. It’s a way of saying that, if we are willing to be reminded, even the sound of the wind can make us think of the first Christmas, when the angels spoke to shepherds outside Bethlehem. Our days are thick with such reminders, if we pay attention; our lives filled with occasions for remembrance. Think just of the seasons: The world is witness. It whispers holy things / of nature fallen and new grace that springs. So why not hear a little bit of Christmas in the wind? The more we are willing to be prompted, the more this world seems redolent of the divine—even our senses overwhelmed. Our daylight thoughts. Our numinous dreams.
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