It was late & dusky. A bitter christmas it was. But it was two italians who attacked our night herons. They was only crouched on a secluded bough. Nearby the rest was mainly larger herons. It wasn’t on a hot day. It wasn’t night. One of them was only gathering twigs. They beat gold into your writing. Because it was a trap to catch a little stray. Side-by-side this morning it was white & rimey. One said he was the head of tru-catch traps so with my tru-catch trap I shot him down. Freeze. “Did ye do it, did ye do it,” said the sociable plover but he was elsewhere, in a semi-arid place, on the dry steppes, and commoner, and richer.