As I was going to Hudson, I met a man with seven sons, Each son had seven boxes, Each box had seven foxes, Each fox had seven cubs. How many were headed to Hudson?

Buried in earth for years, I awaken to sing my summer song. With wings that shimmer, I herald the heat, a fleeting performer of the season's beat.

I am a picture painted in light, drawn across the velvet night. Heroes, beasts, and myths I trace, but vanish come the sun’s embrace. You’ll find me where the dreamers gaze, a silent story in the haze.

I cradle life in my embrace, shaping lands with gentle touch or mighty force, a mirror to the sky above.

What has a mouth but never talks, Runs but never walks, Has a bed but never sleeps, And has a head but never weeps.