I'm not gone to moss quite yet. As I've always, I daydream
Robust and miraculous escapes in which I attack
The hand that dared to feed me. This morning, the sky was wide
And confident before me, and I remembered every
Morning when I felt absurd and absurdly triumphant
Altogether. I'm in this for the long haul, the long fall,
For a song from a lark, descending, remarkably toothed.