The moon is bright and big and heavy.  It hangs close to the earth as we stand in the manger.  He says, "It's a good night for fishing." He says it a couple times.  I don't ask him why though I am curious.  It's a good night for fishing.   The light of the moon illuminates all and my heart feels as wide and open as the lake.  But why would it be a good night for fishing?  Little fish run, flee, swim away.  Why would you swim to the light when they are looking for you?  Silver fishhooks dangling.

   I think of the fish with the fingerprint on it.  The one Christ took out of the water, and pulled gold coins out of its mouth.  I can't remember its name but to this day, these fish bear a fingerprint on their back.  We are marked for what we are meant to do; some say we have invisible thumbprints on our foreheads where we were held as we had life breathed into us.

It's a good night for fishing.  Perhaps the fish go willingly sacrificing themselves that we might slit their throats, cut a line down their bellies, and eat our fill.
   The fish multiplied.  A small boy in one version of the story brings his forward to share.  We imagine his mother at first angry at him for giving their only food away with a long journey ahead.  And then proud as she sees it  multiplied,  the food, his generosity, his love and thinks, "I must remember that" and forgets her good intentions halfway home as we all do.

Do the fish not have memories of other fish being taken from their midst?  Dangling on hooks before being thrown into the boat or a bag.  Perhaps the fish swim forward willingly to be eaten if it means they can live in the light, in the fullness of the moon, if only for a moment.

   The light illuminates them.  I think of silver fish, of cool light, not like the suns.  Light which produces a chill of recognition that we too swim forward willingly.  Sometimes to false light, to that which seems to be illuminated but is dead.

The hook dangles, from it hangs a worm or feather catching the attention of the fish.  How do fish see?  I do not know.  I think of eyes on either side of their heads, never joining in the middle.  But I do not know if it is true that two eyes focused together means we see more than they do.

   "It is a good night for fishing," he says.  I picture a boat, still and quiet in the middle of the lake.  The lake is even stiller, even quieter like we are when we are calm and know we are in the midst of great love, of protection, enveloped on all sides.

The man lays looking up at the moon, fish pole dangling, arm draped over the side, hand in the water.  Perhaps he does not mean to catch fish, only to be alone in the middle of the lake.  Fishing an excuse to steal away from the house, to dream.

   The moon shines down on us in the manger.  "What are they doing?" a kid asks loudly.   The sheep lays legs folded under it near my feet.  Tonight I am a shepherd.
"It's a living manger," his mother says.  We are Mary, Joseph, shepherd, angels.  The animals are themselves, alpaca and sheep.  Joseph tonight is Irish and I hear his accent even more as he says, "It's a good night for fishing."  

Country boy, he knows these things.  He holds the staff with his hands.  So do I, but mine is only holding me up.  Though I am Virgo, Ceres, goddess of agriculture, I have never guided animals home from a field.  I have never followed a star, nor fished under a full moon.  But tonight we are a makeshift family in this ramshackle manger in the midst of the Tenderloin.

   And I feel as calm as the man lying on his back, in his boat in the middle of the lake.  A tug comes on the line.  I take off it gently, a silver fish it seems to sparkle.  I hold it for a second before throwing it back in.  It is a good night for fishing.   Maybe the fish want to see who will release them and who will grasp on tight.   Maybe they are fishing for compassion and it is us upon the line.

   The sheep starts to stand up.  She's shaky on her feet.  Everyone has been feeding her apples and she has had enough to eat.  She is full.  
  
   A little boy approaches in his hands some straw.  He holds it like a fishing rod.  He scratches her on the back, and then plunges his hand deep into her fur.  It disappears like my hand in water.  The sheep is soft and warm.  I want to lay down with my head on the straw.  I watch the full moon float.

   "It's a good night for fishing" then quietly he says "Especially when you do not know what you are fishing for."

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