In Breezewood Canyon's frenzied rains one night
I danced and swooped, mimicking the leaves,
but as I fancied I controlled the breeze
my bone and tendon snapped. My sight went white.
When I came to, I flailed and spat the worms
and dirt out of my mouth, and then I craned
my neck to see that all the best had strained
and failed to pass the torrent of the storm.

The Wonderbolts, my friends, had given up
on saving me when on the canyon's ledge
the wingless wonder threw aside his mop
and, wearing canvas wings, jumped from the edge.
He grabbed me, flicked his wings, and caught a gust
to lift my mangled body from the dust.

Author's Note

This poem features Wind Sock from Friendship is Magic #81.