A poem to division

ode to Hoopoes Must be a bird, to fathom a prodigy Mundane eyes do not often look up, high up to find any silhouettes anymore. They do not often chill out with the loneliest kite Soaring high with the tilted sun, a day is touched in deep around the eve After Nemo is served, you may strum along your new thriller, blessed by Steve. Any chapter that travels with you, sits there for a while keeps you warm underneath the blanket, to fix a slip, meanwhile.