Once upon a time in a land where the Cherokee once did dwell December enveloped in placid content, the place called Gordon. Leaves, brown and yellow and orange, speckled the ground, sometimes stirred to dance with the wind beside roadside curbs or nature’s nooks and crannies.

Down mountain sides and into the valley moved a mysterious presence, an essence, and expression. It floated serenely upon the rivers, balanced on the breeze and descended with the rain upon the land. Like a soft warming afghan it rested upon the environment, bringing comfort to place where the expectant did dwell.

Catching a ride on molecules of air it moved about the earth twisting and turning in chilly exuberance, seeking places where inhabitants gathered. Ascending cold metal stairs it joined the child moving his momentum forward till gravity engaged and pulled them down the slide squealing all the way to plop on a young butt upon the playground chips. It moved back and forth upon the swing where little feet strained to touch the sky and laughed with glee as it see-sawed up and down.

Twisting and turning, tumbling and tossing across the valley it blew with the cool into offices and stores along the village street to sit silently upon the shoulder of the secretary, single-mother, wondering how Christmas could be afforded and then road the currents into management offices where the senior executive signed with silent smile a secretary’s generous bonus check.

It caught a ride in a state trooper’s cruiser and headed south only to be brought short when the trooper blue-lighted the vehicle in front. Exiting the vehicle he headed toward the driver’s door, touched the brim on his hat, and issued a verbal warning and whistling to the wind returned to the warmth of his car. Door opened, it blew out to surf the wind across plowed fields and steam venting plants. Into the mill it blew through the freight door, across the storage spaces and into the offices where a manager told his subordinate, “Let’s shut it down at noon Friday and not open again until Wednesday.”

Tumbling along the wind’s waves it road on an ambulance gurney into the emergency room where tired but dedicated servants labored over those in need and whose faces now showed less stress and where two made a decision to switch with another so the other could be with family on Tuesday. Down the corridors it danced like a miraculous healing tonic then exited to be propelled softly toward others.

It blew past the town hall clock and circled the church steeple before dropping to enter through a crack into the sacred space below. Currents carried it back into the depths of the building into the pastor’s study where the salt-and-pepper haired cleric sat with unmoving fingers hovering over a laptop keyboard the Bible to his left open to Matthew’s story of the Christ child. The pastor’s lips curled in a smile and his fingers danced over the letters of the Christmas sermon constructing itself upon the screen.

Flying on the currents it moved across the valley to the nursing home where seniors sat in rockers reminiscing of days gone by when fruit cakes were made not bought, and the purchases of Christmas were limited to a year’s collection of coins in the hidden Mason jar.

The wind blew strong and it waltzed itself back to where it came to wait upon the next season called Christmas.