The Bird of D’Artagnan

He did not sing to seduce.

He did not cry out to dominate.

He simply stood tall.

On the highest branch,

silent guardian of a tree heavy with red berries.

The small ones approached.

The blackbirds tried their luck.

He opened his wings.

Not to wound.

But to say:

I am here.

He owned nothing.

Yet he defended everything.

And in the cold breath of winter,

his presence was enough.

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