There is a source and I know where it is. Today I'm looking towards Canada On the other side of my lake. My beak Is heading into the wind, always. I swivel on a rod attached to a fence; I squeak a bit if not greased. The Least of my worries is deciding where to gaze because I am moved by the wind, Literally, it blows against My tin wings, and drives my rotation. There are things that I can't tell you, Like why it stings when freezing rain Pelts a human face. Or why ice melts Only to return a few days later drifting Across the vast expanse of Ontario, the flotation Forming belts that wrap themselves along The bouldered shoreline. The location, of my Observation is typically North or Northwest, I'm old, I'm corroded, and in truth I am stolen From an old farmer that died, leaving me On the roof of a collapsing barn, until by chance My brackets pulled away and I landed in the grass Where a woman picked me up and took me home.