Figurehead

Riding a thermal, without a flap of wings, hot air billowing his black cloth canvas, a crow sails the gray ocean of a foggy afternoon. No flap of the wings, no readjustment of rope and sail, it seems as though he is not moving at all; a figurehead as the Earth skims the cosmic ocean. He breaks his statuary, shedding the current like a coat of dust, the crow banks down beneath the cresting green waves of pine trees, resurfacing with a gasp for air so loud the foghorn trembles in embarrassment, and assumes his place as the figurehead of the world once more.