Morning light roses the gaps between the slats of a wooden blind. Ice crystals cluster on the window pane. Near the wood stove, the glow of flames lick paw prints on the scuffed floor.
           I shiver and blow warmth into my cupped palms. The dog, eyeing the canvas coat that I’ve thrown over my night shirt, prances near the door. He thinks we’re headed to barn, but he’ll have to wait. Coffee and prayers precede pulling on boots and breaking ice on the stock tank.
            Soon, the dawn light, now soft on the window, will splash against the kitchen wall like the flash of an angel’s sword. Outside, I sense the Holy Spirit fluttering, seeking a roost amid the brute rafters of my heart.
           
          The dog nuzzles my knee. I recite a psalm. In the silence that follows, the names of those I love begin to flow across my lips. The whispers on my chapped lips warm the chilly room: Albert, Clara, Renee, Tim, Tony, Jake, Marian, Alberta.           
           The list is extensive, though never complete: departed souls, staunch friends, close kin, good neighbors, fellow priests, devoted parishioners. I see their faces. I hear the timbre of their voices and the cadence of their speech. I meditate on the furrow of a brow, the tilt of a head, the slope of a shoulder. I imagine the grip of a handshake, the squeeze of a quick embrace.
 
           In my mind’s eye, strangers gather at the window. Their breaths fog the glass. Some of them frown: Let us in! They sway like a wave: Weary parents. Night-shift nurses. Gasping athletes. Grumpy truckers. Stern deputies. Stubborn farmers. Smiling Florists. Hooded linemen. Goggled welders.
 
           Hardware clerks. Janitors. Ranch hands. Bank tellers. Teachers. Fast-food cooks. Preachers. Painters. Pilots. Lumberjacks.
 
           Inmates. Addicts. The sick. The lonely. The poor. The homeless. The anxious. The confused. The angry. The desperate.
 
           Each morning the crowd is different, each morning the crowd is the same. Each morning, the psalms are different, each morning, the canticle is the same.
           I glance at the window and reach for my boots. The dog wags his tail. A new day begins.