Waving branches in the night,
Flowing against the pale moonlight.

Leaves crispy as can be,
Falling from an old oak tree.

Barky brown and somewhat old,
It's more precious than rare gold.

She wishes she could be a tree,
Standing outside so tall and free.

Like a brave eagle soaring so high,
Flowing against the pale blue sky.

"But nothing is better than being me!"