Heaven

The high sky above Albany is the cold breath of angels tonight, with misting circles around the moon the color of their eyes and their wings, orange and golden and pink, the stars in some obedient order of uncalculable physics in the moon’s white shadows. There is no doubt that God is at work here, quiet above my house, on this cold and crisp and all-knowing night; he's making plans for the next storm, surely to arrive in time for rush hour.