​Driving Into London
by Anne Harding Woodworth

She’s watching the crow fly

parallel to, slightly above, her windshield,
in a rain, headlong, pushing against a current,
so sure of his flight pattern,
of where he’s going and why. Rain
seems to strike his eyes without a sting.  

She craves his natural resolve,
his thermals, his fluency on streams of air,
craves the purpose of a crow in flight.  

Here on the M4, she drives toward
the unknown, a transparent specter
tall, awkward, and strutting over roadkill,
which is no more than itself in future days.
A crow on the wing has only duty
toward grace and terminus.