I burn a bit wherever I
Touch down, and so I fly instead
Flitting through the braeburn sky
Above where thunderclouds are fed,
Swooping across the mounting head
Of some volcano, sliding through
The gaps between where rain is shed
And where it washes off the dew.
I float sometimes an inch or two
Above the poppies as they blow
Or whistle down an avenue
Ignoring streetsigns while I go.
But when I land, to rest and fuel
I wilt, because the land is cruel.
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