Come Young Pirates, Coursers Jet Their Cryptic Wings (44) Poem by Captain Cur

At noon, the coursers jet their cryptic wings,
and trill adventure with the blithest lays
reviving colors of the satin spring
darting among the green leafed golden rays.
Taking full measure of this glorious day;
from branch to branch, then on their flight again,
from rocky cove to slanting mountain gray
in harp-like strings throat out their festive strain,
in high shrill notes, resounding each refrain.

In recursive scenes, Dácil tracks their flight,
beneath shaded coves washed by ocean spray,
and the glistening wave's streaming might
reflected within margins of the bay.
Black mountains embrace the sun's hanging light
absorbing beams that slowly melt away,
then wait, completely harnessing this day.
Below the depths, red lava flows for miles,
giving rise to tribal dreams and a birthing isle.

Massive soundings of nature's royal court
in flowery dress, bright floral green displays;
sharp eyed eagles scream from their airy lofts,
falcons appear in beauteous winged array
in celebration of Princess Dácil's birth.
Presumptuous coastal winds gorgeously blow
gliding just beneath sunlight's wistful rays;
dusk settling, drenching volcanic heights,
along cliffside eaves in sunset's manic light.