He’s not skateboarding, he just

Fell down and from somewhere

Beyond the arch, a cellist

Stirs her round arpeggios

As the angel arrives, her foot

touching down, her

Wings as if hovering over

her strong shoulders.

It’s a mild visitation; no one much

Notices.  The guy picks himself

Up, looking around for his skateboard,

The cellist finds her way up the neck

Of the instrument, her bow hand

Working as if by itself.

Four pigeons roost in dignity

On the angel’s wings and head.

There’s no green yet, just

Sun on my back—

A glow where wings would be,

The shining pin of a plane

Silent in the sky, a chopper’s

Drone for a moment

In tune with the cello,

Then drowning and diminishing,

As the cello emerges

from the clatter,

just single notes, adagio.

                                 --James Paul