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