It's July, and next to a public trash can is a red and green Christmas tree holder.

It's July, and out of the open door of a house comes the sound of someone practicing "Angels We Have Heard on High" on a recorder, the "Gloria" part repeated.

We've gone a bit more than half way on our trip around the Sun since the last Christmas. Maybe there's an echo across our ellipsoid way.

Glory to God in the highest. Glory to the once and future us, across the squashed circle we move along, over there.