Planes fly high in the sky,
And insects fly far below the clouds,
But horizontal rain slicing through the air
Smells better than thunderous crowds.
The lightning rods on the houses,
Are decorative as can be,
But not as pretty as the crows,
That sit on the edges of the magic tree,
Buildings loom in the distance,
One solid color to the eye,
And looking for another way,
Time to release it to the sky.