As the Crows Fly

As the Crows Fly
A Vagabond Collection Post

As the denigrated stays
holding spinnaker to mast frays
a weakened disquietude
migrates into the conundrum
onto the angular azimuth,
knocked about with a persistent echoing
across the waters, channeled from the mother ship.

Pitched against a celestial cold
the voiceless erratic yet increasingly bold
shifts from the perpetual black hole onto a space, between
moments in time of inexactitude opposition
and tumbles mute downstream bringing senses to brace
against demanding rapids 
sharp rock juts and rough currents
issued by unrepentant bitter winds.

Without sensing a crew, boom, or mast
the old, tired rudder renders it a useless cast
so the vacant vessel tosses about, not sailable
yet she remains swooped upon, but never swooping
fluttering unsteady without a compass bearing
to navigate the infinity of this great-circle myth.

Weathering the storms sheltered but blanket less
the nest empty in the eponymous egress
no teacher on forging in this new world, nor
to call gently of lemon scents
so conspicuously alone
so close to the cold-hearted ground.

From what well does courage arise
an ironic strengths befitting some prize
to coax open the soul
to follow the crow road
to mitigate this existential quandary
to withstand the storms
to eke out a fortitude
to witness fruits of an innate endurance
to put forth on a path, never straight
but instinctively towards land
as the crows fly.

… if on foot, she always travels as the crow flies, which the openness and dryness of the country permits; neither rivers nor the steepest mountains stop her course, she swims over one and scales the other ~ W. Kenrick

~ namasté, Leah J. 🕊

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