AS THE CROW FLIES
By Peter Kaufmann, Homer
All that black and shiny knowing
that the shortest distance between two points
is never a straight line.
From the first beat of heart
to the stillness of last breath,
laughter, tears,
a slow blink apart
The spiral curl of ammonite
emerges from crumbling bluff,
its print, once soft,
dissolved into stone
Who walks straight
when there is so much to go around,
when the only piece of black in a blue, blue sky
folds its wings and drops,
catching itself,
just before it hits the ground.