Fountain of the Falling Angel (Photo credit: Daniel Coomber)

He is tumbling towards the earth, and the first thing that goes through his mind is:

‘Where are my wings?’

Did he forget them? Drop them? He should have clung to them like a monkey to a tree branch above a lake full of crocodiles because without them, they will surely eat him up down there. Or he could have clung to the sun. Except maybe this was the sun’s fault. Maybe it burnt up his wings or melted them; maybe it thought he was Icarus.

He should have clung to the moon. He might have frozen, but at least he would still have been closer to the stars. And he deserved being closer to the stars. Was he not beautiful? Was he not wise? In fact, was he not the most beautiful and the wisest there ever was? He was that unique being. No, he IS that unique being, he is sure. And where he came from was a wonderful place, although he seems to have forgotten exactly what it was like. The picture of the place is like a vague dream. Like soft clay it changes form as he grips it, and as he squeezes, it flows out between his fingers and falls apart beyond any recognition. The Silver City? Maybe. Heaven? Possibly. No matter what it was and who threw him out, he will get back there; he swears that to the sky.

With the oath on his lips, he finds his wings, large, swan-like wings and he turns his fall into a graceful glide.