Hood held high and sleeves held wide, I let the falling stormwater slide.

I shade the banks where waters glide, with trailing branches stretched out wide. The fiercest winds may make me bow, yet here I stand beneath them now.

I linger in the halls, after the original sound. Reverberating around, repeating the sound, slowly drifting to a silent bound.

What do you call a deer that has no eyes?

I visit only twice a year, yet never stay for long. I crown the summer’s longest day, and winter’s briefest dawn.