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[66] C R E C H E East of the star, spiked snowflake on fir, a cloth dove, pinned to a twig, flies shotgun above the scene. The magi are still en route; only shepherds lean on the periphery, bursting with stories of strange music, a stranger birth. Drawn like a magnet to this ersatz stable, a small boy kneels, parka unzipped, stubby fingers itching to rearrange the figures as he would his toys: shove the shepherds in closer so they can see the baby; the donkey’s lonely outside. The boy won’t touch a thing, someday may learn how St. Francis in his joy started this custom with live farm animals, told the people of Greccio to light up the sky with torches (for the star). That first creche, unlike [67] this one, smelled of dust and dung, perfume to the saint’s nostrils as he sang the gospel, the infant borrowed for a day slippery in his arms. ...

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