I learned that, at night, we might be schooled by angels. Never did she introduce herself and say, “I am an angel.” It may be that “I” is not a known word, or if known, is kept secret. But her garments were all light, she spoke in musical waves of feeling, and gravity was nothing to her. What was I to think? She lacked wings, but then, despite many dusty old paintings, somehow I never expected them. I think in more familiar guise, I might mistake her for human. I cannot fathom her true identity and history, but it would not surprise me to learn that she herself remembers all that is of man.