It has been a long time since I believed wholly in the benevolence of angels or of gods— at least, the kind pictured in clean smocks, with pale, unblemished skin and haloes of unearthly light. I say unearthly because they bear no trace of the blight of our earth, no soot- stains, no recent images of fires or floodwaters roiling in their eyes. I wonder if they know what a food desert is, or if their fingers have ever touched a milkweed frond, or grazed the wings of migrating monarchs. The Angel of History, on the other hand, is whipped to a frenzy by a great wind. His garments are in shreds, but he shows how to sift through the rubble of everything that once was shiny and new or came with insurance or a lifetime guarantee. It's no use crying, and it's no use saying if only. But you can fish garbage out of the water, tend to plants and trees confused by weather. It isn’t enough to point out the broken. Ask how to salvage the seeds and pieces still of use.