In a crisis of faith at nineteen, calling out to God, I heard no response and thought my angels not just gone but never been.
Yesterday, as I looked across the wide valley, I saw her, a dark angel. For a moment against the sky, she hovered, strumming one solitary cry against the harp of her beak. While I watched, foolish mouth agape, she melted into clouds leaving nothing but a sense of loss. And then a realization–my angels have another shape.