A limerick from the long trail

Look at a crow, and think She.

Harried young woman who swoops past your door,
dark raincoat glistening as she bears the storm.

Weathered old crone with a twinkle in her eye, and her little girl,

There is a joy that comes with movement.
a furious, feral delight 
in the drum of the feet and the thrum of the heart, 
each crashing against their respective anchors, in a desperate dance to be free.