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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