In a dark alley behind the Mudcat Cafe,where snow is softening the sharp edges of dumpsters,trash cans,and empty cardboard boxes,a pair of battered black shoes and ragged trousers stick out from an unidentifiable stack of debris.These belong to a very old and odorous man who has sought shelter here to sip from a paper-wrapped bottle of cheap wine,and to conjure dreams from the clouds of snow-steam which rises from the grates beside him.He is any one of a thousand rumpled souls you might encounter as they panhandle the daylight streets,slump on the park benches,or stand in line at the shelter,seeming to acknowledge nothing,to merely exist.

But he has his own history,and it is haunted with his own ghosts. They approach him now through the rising steam and spinning snowflakes,and he speaks to these apparitions in a low voice.Foremost among them is his wife,who he has not seen since her death so many years ago.She sits beside him,heedless of the snow and cold,and takes his rag-cloaked fingers in her own hands,warming him."Merry Christmas," he says to her,and two bundled figures,passing the dark alley entrance mistake that he has spoken to them,and they hurry their steps. He turns again to the wine,as a chorus of voices reach him through the wall of the tavern.The song is familiar,and he turns to her to ask the name of it,but he is alone there,and he remembers.

Were you to pass the dark opening of this alley,gaily burdened with your packages and wearing the glow from a cup of Christmas cheer,you may hear beyond the happy voices emanating from the Mudcat Tavern,a quieter voice,weak but not bereft of the joy of the season."Silent Night",it calls,"Holy Night." And that voice seems to come from the falling snow itself.