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.
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