Angels without their wings are indistinguishable from humans.

Though they prime each other before descending, sometimes they are primitive.

Falling nimbly in their four limbs, they take refuge in inconspicuous cracks, the spaces between the leaves where the sun seeps in.

They rummage through the wardrobe of the world for clothing to disappear under.

After foraging, a few of them sleep while the others keep watch.

Awake at unusual times to circumvent surveillance, their swift, soft steps can hardly be heard.

They finally reach the top of the mountain, fingertips numb from the climb.

They like to rest in high places.

Out of habit, angels without their wings jump.