The air bends her
But she is not hindered.
She curls and curves in the wind, but
The shapes she makes
Are not dictated.
Sometimes the sea gives
Sometimes she has to take.
She spies a silver flash
Then pierces the waves
Like a flung spear.
Her world has four dimensions;
Grey skies, smoked by approaching weather
Blue-green fathoms that fade to deepest black
Fledglings awaiting her return, unfillable
The song of the spirit that lives in