One night I lay in want of sleep,
but fair Adventure, dark and deep,
was resting, waiting, captivating
every thought my mind could keep.
And so I stole across my room,
drawn by the Fates’ incessant loom,
for whispers, swift and promising,
were luring me into the gloom.
I balanced on the windowsill,
undaunted by the creeping chill
of night, for brightly overhead
the watchful Moon hung soft and still.
Then swiftly, as if by a prayer,
a Nighthawk, slicing through the air,
appeared to rest abreast my lonely
figure, as I waited there.
She peered at me through ebon eyes
that sung of shadows, old and wise,
and as she loosed her beak to speak
I listened raptly, hypnotized.
“O Raven-girl, your time is near!
Why must you wither, crouched in dreary,
pallid light? The ballad of your life
is raging! Fly from here!”
I quickly rose, enraptured by
this dark messiah, knowing I
could never flee my bruised and bloodied land
until I learned to fly.
So I, held captive by her claims,
entranced by she who called my name
so boldly, whispered “mold me as you will
and make us both the same.”
Within a moment, I was changed
and all my features rearranged,
eclipsed by feathers, weathered claws,
and eyes that saw myself estranged.
At this, although the light was dim,
I saw the Nighthawk, old and grim,
take to the skies; within her cries
I heard her final crooning hymn:
“Behold the waxing Moon, and then
look closely as it starts to wane.
Like ragged Ships and rugged Men,
here and there, then gone again.”
And just like that, she disappeared,
elusive as the Sisters, weird
and wild; the night once more was mild
and wretched dark no longer feared.
I soared on borrowed wings that night;
bathed in the strange and spectral light
that washed the world, I twirled and balanced,
wraithlike, on the winds of flight.
I skimmed and sailed the velvet sea
that roiled and tossed and cradled me
between the hats and crooked backs
and shadows strewn about the streets.
But Dawn, the Ever-present, curled
her back, and gilded wings unfurled
to usher in the rush of din
that ripped me from my Netherworld.
I woke, as I am wont to do
When Night concedes her glory to
the crystal-patterned mists of Morning’s
journey into swirling blue.
And through my window, fading fast,
my loyal Guard did set at last,
obscured and blurred by wishful clouds
that shimmered like a lake of glass.
A lake with waves much stronger then,
or dreams that fade beyond my ken.
Like ragged Ships and rugged Men,
here and there, then gone again.
Jenna Kurtzweil is 19 years old and hails from Palatine, IL. Along with her responsibilities as a student at the University of Illinois, Jenna is always looking for new opportunities to experience life through travel, literature, music, and all forms of storytelling. Jenna has also been published in The Noisy Island.