Rejoice wing, rejoice and sing on mountain top.
This morning's tap whistles pass my ears.
I'd surrender, sure I would, to fall up into the sunrise.
From high, I spot in jagged crevice,
a bee who fingers unperturbed a yellow daisy -
he and she - brave pioneers of rock formations.
In one voice (ole English, yet) they inquire:
"Woman Tell, art thou a bug or, perchance,
some type of pollen factory?"
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