That crow attempting to fly with her mate

in the midst of a windstorm that has thrust

her aloft into the vortex of feckless flapping

and furtive glances down where he flies

perpendicular to the ground, for the most part

in control but unaware that above,

his darling has lost hers,

is fully aware that though their species loves

to kite on a fine updraft when the sun is warm

and nothing but pleasure comes to mind,

this buffeting squall snapped the tether and

she is not kiting but kite, with wings outspread

and still, ascending like the Virgin only faster.

God alone knows when or if she’ll return.

© Dana Hughes 4.13.18