Waiting For Angels

Out of the mouths 
of sparrows, 
dead ash.
From the earth,
seeds 
choked with dust.
Under a smoldering sky 
sheltering nothing,
not the stars,
naked and unknowing,
not the sun, 
blind in it's fury,
the dry land burns,
expecting angels 
to weep,
burns with thoughts
of flood, 
burns
and waits.