The farms came dressed in battered ends of harvest wheat, silver silos (four buttons

to a sleeve), and at the neck, a brooch of cloud, alabaster over

shadow. Two rivers reconnoitred at a town well known to both, and exchanged

in advance their dancing cards and dark glances. The babies “those who came”

thanked god for safe arrival, having whipped the hounds they rode

through snowy fields in feeble moonlight. The young masseuse found

she had no gown not pink with lace, and donned a wig with golden curls, and feared

she'd argue with the babies, so refused to greet or dance with them all evening.

The robins stood guard in stiff poses, mistrustful of the hounds, but quite ready to be heroes

should the babies fall or panic, wishing only that the master of the house,

the cardinal, would give the order to relax, or join the ball, before the night was out.

Those gathered in the ballroom stood waiting long hours for the honored lords, the Jesuses,

whose whereabouts none knew, it seemed, for sure; though the babies and the robins

swore for certain they had met them on the way.