I had heard it might be; Heaven
was cold last night.
Fortunately, when I rose from bed
I had wrapped
A quilt about me and entered as a
patchwork angel.
The place was filled with birds –
rooks, for the most part;
I hope never to see a sight more
miserable.
They huddled together, their black
feathers puffed
Or flew in enormous clouds, trying
to keep warm.
Two of them hopped to my shoulders
and a third,
Larger than common, gripped the
hair on my head.
“If, Stranger,,” he said, his voice raw and grating,
“You should encounter God and fall
into discourse
We ask this of you: tell Him he
has been
Egregiously misled; we are not
delighted.”
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