Last November I watched a crow against an altocumulous background. Shifty day, winds higher up buffeted the crow off its southward path in the sky. It maintained a general direction, struggling, past my visual horizon. I wondered about destinations, whether it matters precisely where you land, as long as you get there.
Come April, I watched another crow, its due southwest path unfettered by opacity or breeze, an arrow of time finding its way. As this one too passed beyond my sight, I considered the importance of precision, of that right connection, clear, unhampered.
Conditions, intent, timing. A slope, a curve of the universe. Arbiters of this sphere.
Shouldn't...but Do 
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