Who can tell about angels?
They pass over sleeping cities scattering death,
make appalling announcements,
play ominous music on brass instruments.
Who can tell?
She beckoned with her tiny index finger,
looked around to see if anyone would hear.
I leaned down so she could whisper in my ear:
Angels. Angels came to visit me in the night.
She’s been here only four years,
what can she know?
“Were they friendly?” I asked.
NO! she shouted, alarmed,
looked around again, whispered again,
They were VERY BIG.
They said “Shhhhh.”
This was told to me many years ago by a priest friend–the “I” in the poem.