I shy at something that comes crosswise in the early morning wind. This is blindness. This is not blindness. Maybe it’s the muffled claimant we call an angel. Dear Diderot how much conversation did you really have with the blind? I love you no matter the answer. Here, let me introduce you to my dented angel. She’s eating black cherries under the eaves of my house. She carries the fruit in her robes which are stained purple. They say purple originated from the mucus of snails but I know better. There have always been angels, cherries and blind people walking abroad in storms.