Fresh water in my feathers: yes!
Forgive me as I make a mess,
but how I yearn to make a splash
within a fountain, and to thrash
my weary wings and thirsty beak,
to cool my feet, let out a squeak
of joy I cannot disavow,
because, for weeks, right up to now,
that drought demanded me to fly
much further than I'd ever try
when weather's pleasance would assure
this lowly bird could live secure
and never have to migrate long,
just take to skies, perfect my song,
expecting not to be estranged,
and never know of climates changed.