Painted plastic, the brushes stroke,
Camouflaged as diamond stone,
Beneath the cloak of white-blue sky
The granite cries alone.

Above the puddle, although wee
His belly masked in lily pad
The pond beside, he takes a peek
While wishing he was grand.

Poking out of tortoise attire,
The bird beak pecks the grounded corn,
Though the other winged prey higher,
She yearned to be earth-bourn.

If we fill the water of wishing wells,
If we gladly call the puddle a pond,
We break biologic boundary spells
And sing our fateful songs.