The sun is slipping down the horizon. An echelon of wild geese gather above.I follow grey wings into the storm.

My arms are branches of trees and you are
my nourishment, 
cut me down to a boat.
My spine a sturdy keel , my hair
unfurled sails.   A distant lighthouse
my only lamp for you hold the stars
in your hand.
If my  sails are cast into a cleft too
deep for me to cross
I was trying to get to you. 


rip David Crosby