I found a downed angel on the wings of dusk, where the sky still burned with zealous lust in the low west and a heron hunted in the inky mirk of a vernal pond. I picked her up and put her in my pocket, kept her safe from the approaching chill of fall, already crisping the breeze and leaves. And when I returned home, warm and full of pumpkins aglow, I pinned her up and made her dress lay right. I stretched her wings as if she might take flight. And when she’s dry I’ll add her just as before, to my collection where I honor those who will fly no more.