In the spring we were visited
by aliens wearing sunglasses
The wrens and I followed them to their secret lab
where they practise some kind of alchemy.
Every day begins with an eager flight to the fields
where the group pores over the special collections
and then they all return home
to share the smallest find with devotion
They might be angels
Their wings look like stained glass windows
Some might know them as saints
Patrons to the mad, the world weary and wild.
An old story says they are a gift.
A divine transmutation of sunlight.
Tear drops of golden mercy
Falling sweetly from the sky.
I wonder if they tell stories about us.
The scary ones.
Perhaps one day they will blink and
We will be gone.