I felt it, riding through the afternoonâ€” the nights are getting shorter and itâ€™s cold and then the baby shifted in my womb and the innkeeper sent us to his sandy field. I did what I was made to do. And now who knows what else is possible? Godâ€™s breath moves against the soft nose of the cow. The moon shines on this shed and on the path where you lean, watching us. Who are you? I am the round yon virgin of your song. You are the sky the light is passing through, and you are the iron moonlight. Youâ€™re sweet fresh- smelling hay. Youâ€™re Bethlehem, the tall kings. Reach out, release us from this wooden crĂ¨che.