Ode to the angels as they fly

You wander through the evening sky, to all the stars a passerby, and all the children point, say "Why does God connect his stars with streaks of white? I say they're only angels fast in flight and that an angel's wings are made of light. In short, I lie. I will not try to make them cry explaining the fall of meteorites. To tell the truth sometimes is just not right. Better myths about angels in the night than specks of dust that spark and die, pulled from orbits that went awry. There's no magic in that reply.