The year descends, drops behind the moon, cold in the night and aflame with stars. Now we warm ourselves with ancient stories of stars on the move, not contained by powers or tribes, crossing borders. There was a first Advent — against the odds. It was promised. We believed so fervently we did not see the One who came, crossing borders without a sound. It's not that certainty is wrong, but there is imagination. And hope. Everything else is blind experience or gossip. There is a wilderness inside us, a desert wilderness. Promises as cold as contracts, despair feeding the cosseted self. Hope burns. In the last age it flames up against the wind, fuels the Advent promise, the one yet to come.