Poem

The Bird

The bird that tried to race the rain
is back in flight to try again.

They say she's slow and far too old.
They say she's bound to catch a cold.

But there she goes—she's in the sky.
Her wings spread out and yet she's dry.

This drizzle yet may turn to storm.
These clouds keep coming—so dark and torn.

She zooms ahead, now left and right.
She swerves around a lightening strike.

Her feathers still have not got wet.
And if they do, she'll lose the bet.

So much depends upon this claim:
to be the bird that races rain.