Confessions of a Shape shifter

First my toes turn into talons,
then my mouth becomes a beak,
feathers grow upon my fingers;
songs replace the words I speak.

Then I spread my wings out widely
and go soaring through the clouds
over all the ordinary
things like houses, streets and crowds.

Then I dive down to the ocean
and transform into a fish
with frilly fins and silver scales
and a tail that I can swish.

And I explore caves and coral reefs
and hulks of sunken ships
and though sharks may try to snap me up
I always give them the slip.

Then I crawl back onto dry land;
out of the oceans ebb and flow;
my two fanned fins become webbed hands
and my tail, feet with webbed toes.

And, a little frog, I leap around;
I hop and skip and jump and bound;
puff out my chest, make a loud croak
and with lightning tongue kill flies in a stroke.

But then my croak becomes a bark;
my snub nose grows into a snout;
fur covers me, all thick and dark,
and a waggly tail begins to sprout.

And then I am a happy hound,
excitedly racing about;
lazily rolling on the ground
or, with my nose, sniffing stuff out.

But then I start to change again,
returning to my normal form;
rejoin, once more, that race of men
to whom I have learned to conform.

Oh, but I will never be transformed
like most of the men I have known
from a beating heart and flesh and blood
to a thing of steel and stone.