Stone ferreted from under
 a hedge weighs well in the hand

 as if it was to skim the unfrozen
 water and bounce ripples

 out to the lapping edge, but,
 listen for my shout “tek,tek,tek”,

 and look for my stocky rich brown
 restless plumage and short cocked tail,

 flick, flick, flick, as you aim the stone.
 I may not die quickly this Christmas,

 you may remove an eye, or break
 my flesh brown legs. I am the king

 of winter whose death heralds cumming
 of spring, hugs from mates, togetherness.

 Yours is a victory stone, your shout goes up,
 “Got it!” and mates shake your hand.

 I am a present of dead feathers, broken
 bones,  a message of goodwill.

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