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.”