She’s precariously propped into the branching of a big white sycamore tree –
lulling in its night-breeze waves of mid-summer canopy.
Her impervious noggin is arm-pillowed. Her cape is hanging. Her epic sighs
and galesome snores blow old black shingles off our parents’ house here nearby.
Having saved us all once more from some villain’s devious plot,
she’s fully beat… ultra-tired… completely, preternaturally shot…
Crack of dawn, she’ll be gone. Where she’ll go’s not mine to know.
For now, though, my supersister sleeps outside my bedroom window.