Who Leans from the Cliff

Leaves crowd the twigs in my bed.
Words fill the skies in my head

In the guise of a black cloud
That hides the great bird of myth

Who gives the black cloud its shape,
My head its thoughts, me my hope.

The bird has vowed to help me,
But I must watch for the cloud

And know the sign of a storm
Is the sign of aid for me,

Who was raised with leaves for sheets,
Nest for bed, words for my head.