In the wake of May,
a summer wren,
she flies away
on her wings golden.
Above the cities,
she so hovers,
and how she sees
things under covers,
Beneath an airplane,
she proudly soars,
avoiding rain,
and all its foul sores.
On a small, weak twig
set with sharp thorns,
she seats her slick
little claws, too worn.
At the end of May,
this summer wren,
she seized the day,
and flew back again.
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