Wings of Fire over the Bay

Through the soft mists of dawn they arrive, dancing queens of the open sky, wings of fire that weave and thrive in an ancient journey passing by. In Pacific Grove, a sacred glade, they rest together in shade and hue, beneath eucalyptus the air has stayed warm whispers, tender and true. They cross Santa Cruz, kissing the sand, with the tide singing beneath the sun, and the wind carries a song so grand that guards their path from south to sun. Oh monarch, jewel that dreams and flies, your wings paint beauty across the shore; in every flight, the earth replies that even the frail may seek once more.