The preachers may say they believe

in angels in all their glory—

whose glory comes filtered of God—

and say they hear their holy songs above,

imagine wings oflight and silver,

feathers of white unflawed.

And that is well and good:

But I wonder how one can speak of angels,

whose wings we have not seen,

when red-tailed hawks fly over interstates

on black-dappled, rust, red, white-brushed,

creation-colored wings,

and nest on rooftops

angels never would.