So the Mother comes to the birthing-stool. Painted with white clay patterns of birth, she waits.
Around her the animals gather in silent expectation. They say that at midnight on Midwinter's Eve, they will speak. They wait.
They say that at midnight on Midwinter's Eve, the trees will burst into blossom. They wait.
They say that at midnight on Midwinter's Eve, the rivers and springs will flow with wine. They wait.
They say that on Midwinter's Eve, the Sun will blaze forth in glory at midnight: and, indeed, our eyes shall behold it.
We wait.