Christmas in Belgium

I hopped for six days straight, crossing the Netherlands diagonally and all the while singing “The Jesus Christ Pose.” Yesterday then finally, I crossed the border into Belgium, and it appears that this is where I shall spend Christmas this year; in a tiny village, mysteriously called “Neerglabbeek.” Here I have found logging with four chicken named Elsa, Louisa, Ethel and Paris. “Always room for a bunny, I say,” said Elsa. “It’s way too cold for a bunny to be out on his own,” commented Louisa to which Ethel added “especially on Christmas eve.” Paris fluffed her feathers and cooed “I simply LOVE bunnies! Come here, let me give you a big old hen’s welcome hug.” The chicken are fed by an ageing man with a red beard who comes from a large brick house that is adjacent to their shack. In return for the food he appropriates the eggs. This, they concede frustrates their maternal instincts but, as Ethel eloquently put it, “ain’t nothing around here to go cock-a-hoop over anyway.” Perhaps this is, given my animosity towards, and, truth be told, fraught history with large talons, all for the best. Christmas, alas for them, is tainted by the blue colors of this lack, the deficient nature of their motherly aspirations. But every story offers hope, and so to Elsa, Louisa, Ethel and Paris, the story of nativity offers a glimpse of a different future; one that holds the diminutive chirping glee of tenderness. Yes indeed, my visit upon their simple dwelling heralds to them the unexpected, change that calls unbeckoned, a future happiness. Their hearts are heavy with longing, mine laden with restlessness and fear, but tonight there is only love and the spirit of Christmas shared with new friends.