The tree-ferns they buttress, an inch-thick cream Curd sits tall, sits pretty- on his feet; As snow and milk scatters, from the moon Wiping his beak into the froth. Languid, smiling, cackles does he, tempting Feasts under feathered tin cups, the apple Sleeping, snow-borne, rotting nicely, he Is pecking. Arrow-tipped eyes, Watch, they are watching, watching me, always. He is busy, he is trite and black and bony. Rustling pearly ball-gown Feathers, boring out the forest chill. Mindless, mindless wandering- he is sore, He is Kingly. A dotted branch, snaps- Matted curly nooks he falls like stones That scarlet fish gobble as jewels. Perching, the crowny thorns sit left and right, The nimble spider, he spins and drops A moonstone pebble, upon the ground; He ticks and watches, better-born.