Blow and above
the great cloudline puffs
digging heels in the volcano crater
little tail wrapped neatly along the coast.
It’s been an age since I’ve seen it done
but there the birds go again
dancing skies like ants to honey
the Trotsky trot the Marx minuet!
Oh, what I wouldn’t give
to be a motley bird again
to swiftly tango the laughing clouds
and shadow the sun upon the ground.