Bird Rock

The rock sits on top of your pit.
Bites and squeaks, up in your peak.

The smell of dirt brings memories of you.
It feels round and dull, yet rough and spiky.

To me it's gold, to others it's mould.
The rock is grey like your mousy prey.

When it's in my grasp, I remember when I got you.
The magic of it makes my mind race.