Weathercock
The blacksmith beat
his comb and tail into shape,
then he was raised high,
saw the world anew,
felt many winds.
He was keen,
restless, cawed and
puffed his feathers
at each gust
- in the storm he stood straight,
neck stretched.
Till he rusted
stuck, skewed
to the north.
From where the wind
most often comes.
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