A screech owl startles the angels into flight—: a whirlwind, a frayed rapture. Our guts roil; phones bleat alarms as angels scatter and reconvene. Wingbeats, wingbeats. They whisper to one another in the dark. Starlight pierces the occasional feather. Can angels be embarrassed? A ruffling of branches as they resettle for the night. We dare not ask why they are here. They murmur to one another until again the owl cries and again they rise. We give up on sleep in our corner of the city. A silence grows around our homes—deeper for our knowing how easily it might break.

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a donation from Susan Jessen during our annual Kickstarter.]