On Eschatological Radio Angels Flying in the Troposphere

Millennial engineers of faltering air, not eschatological radio angels tighten struts, bolts, and cantilevers of eternal design. Angels guard antique equipment, invented in principle by our original architect, logophile, and alpha-omega abba.

Shoulders of unseeded rain encircle the troposphere,

sweet jaggery of ferns.

Northern lights, the auroras, riff magnetic jazz above the poles.          

A low-frequency hum

signals human civilization or vice versa—

The long winter salts a tangible road of devotion. Please tune in.
Do you hear me? Radio angels neither hunger nor thirst: Tune in.
Desiderata of violent coronal flares, gore-jewels of salvation.

No one sees who is there —lights on

hovering afield.

Image Credits: Tom D