Self Portrait as a Tin Duck

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.



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