Roads branchinto lanesbearing fruitof tiny farms,a patchwork quilt.Ten thousand feet. Angelsblow smokeover the hills,settlesin ravines.Twenty thousand feet. A thin bandof yellow and red,smudgesthe horizon–blue above, gray below.Thirty thousand feet. Angelic smokenow covers all,an untaut blanketrippled with wavesfrozen in time.Forty thousand feet. The white carpetwelcomesHis entrance,too brightin my window.And holding.