waiting for angels

Art by Steven DaLuz

we walk in night. wrapped in darkness. we seek a place to sit. to stay. to wait.

we rest. hurling words at one another as if they were rocks. flinging them high. waiting to hear them hit. and bounce. and still.

in stillness. the sound of water. brackish. gushing beneath the roots of trees.

we hear it so clearly. the sound.

we hear them. we see them. rocks. their lifeless elegance. their earthy splendor.

we reach out our hands with struggle. with hunger. with greed.

the rocks cut our flesh. splinter our bones. our hands glimmer with blood. we raise them to our faces in terror. now, our faces are bloody, too.

we gasp at the horror of being exposed.

we take shelter in a tree with limbs praying to a bountiless sky, frozen in mid-incantation. we scale the sky with weary eyes.

we see him. an apparition? he stabs with his actuality.

he circles. he curves. he descends. he sheds his wings. lays them on the ground.

he glances at us. brief eyes and ethereal lashes.

he curls into himself beneath the tree. he catches the rain as it drips from the leaves.

we sit. we wait. expectantly.

in the morning. we will still be waiting.

he will uncurl himself. he will brush off the rain. he will mount his wings upon his back.

and he will rise. slowly.

and we will be left. waiting.

for him. or for another angel. to come. and shed his wings. and leave us waiting while he sleeps.