Sacred Kingfisher

The good kitchen scissors of its beak scrape against the powerline's
Handy razor strap; a dapper tailor cutting into the day's fresh pattern.
Its voice rasps on the morning's conscious, an elegant piping that
leads Striped marsh frogs to their death, opening up their stomachs
like silk Purses. With its redcoat breast its genes are strictly
military in design, it Follows an old, honourable code of diving
headfirst into battle, a reliance On surprise its tactical evolution.
In close quarters, its beak slashes baby Brown snakes like a Ghurkha's
kukri; its reputation for precision killing Precedes its dawn raids
into the Bremer's brown trench. It is rare to see One dead.
Superstition would have them fly into the sun's heart, to give Back
their russet feathers to Apollo's' lethal quiver, but their end is
more Earthy. When they plummet, they nosedive into the forest's broad
deck; Dropped from a tree's back pocket, a drying bloodstain on a
handkerchief's Blue satin background. A pair of rusted garden shears
blunt in its mortality.

 

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