Frost falls from her feathers
as she unfurls her shadow.
A turtle swims violently slow
beneath the ripple she did spur.
Kingfishers coo in chorus,
the sun in their beaks.
Morning clouds wax and wane like fire.
Over the water and flying.
Circle the stones, pile with sticks.
Plucking four black feathers,
she covers the rubble burying her cygnets.
Her beak clicks, eyes blink;
breast pulsates, calling her mate.
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