What do birds think when the earth is no longer scorched with drought? Lungs hydrated,
brain healed, bright-spread toes dappled in mud? I'll tell:
Forecast today: the X-Y plane is wobbly at best.
Evening storms ahead. Thunder may crash over my song.
Sometimes you are submerged, and sometimes you are not.
Sometimes there's a bug and sometimes there's a whole worm.
I am the general of billions of cells over.
Each sunrise, I put on a feathered cap. And mind a nest, made out of honey twigs.
My heart wakes before anything. Its thing is consistency.
It speaks in meter. Broadcasting a song that is enough so to transmit AM radio.
I'm starting to notice that if rain falls and I sing my head off in spite, the sky eventually answers in flight!
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