A composure of thoughts from the year’s final glow,

A stacker’s deep musings, all tied with a bow.

My sats shone like that Star and my lessons the manger,

Where magi, two-thousand-twenty years prior were stranger,

Before fortnites away, my author appealed, 
To the wisdom that stackers one year prior did steal,

Borne by a bird’s eye on a wintery nite,
What am I, dear dreamer, this fanciful flight?