I keep my golden face to the sky, following a fire that never dies. Rooted still, yet turning slow, what am I that loves the glow?

I slide through rivers slick and cold, In silver streams I twist and roll. With nimble paws and whiskered face, I dive and dart with playful grace.

It’s vocals known when it’s first word is blown. The second: Bank mobile, Or a quick mobile tone. Together: A noble mobile to homes, In breezeway strung, Hung to knock its own.

Morning's gentle kiss, Glistening on emerald blades, Whispers of night's tears.

Sounding like a curse, Waves greeting, then disperse. A stretch of land, one-Pebble, sand. A towel nap, you’re burnt.