The sun is slipping down the horizon. An echelon of wild geese gather above so I follow grey wings into the storm. My arms are branches 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 sails are cast into a cleft too deep for me to cross, I was trying to get to you.