The yellow buttercups drink it
like my skin drinks it.

When they spread their petals
I spread my arms.

Where the hill makes a shadow
between me and sun,

I nibble along the hilltop,
chewing on sparse bushes.

My belly glows brighter
with stiff leaves and prickers.

I blossom. I fly.
Please don’t try to persuade me

that there is no such bird
as a wild rose.