Clipped

Finally,
It's our time—
Summer.
This new season reverberates
With the hallway echoes
Of their popped corks, their wild cheers, our jealousy. 
The fall through spring proved as harsh as ever—
Still undermined by our sterling appearance.
As our expatriated revise their resumes
To stock their empty trophy rooms,  
We put our dreams into a basket
And draft a renewed course.
Unlike the Smiths and Joneses before,
We wooed an aged baron
To guide a healed griffon (among others)
In hopes that we'll be carried
Out of the blackness
To heights unreached.
And yet we know
The altitude's effects—
Bloody noses, burning eyes—
As once more
Our cursed wings will be clipped
And they'll find us manning an escape,
For summer will come again.