A dancer in the sky, with wings so bright, Soft whispers on the breeze, a joyous flight. Once a humble crawler, now a brief delight.

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 am fast and blue, competes in the Olympics against an Italian plumber. Or taken in parts, a manicured shrub and a wild pig.

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.