Being still in a garden—under an arbor awash in sun
Birdsong punctuating the quiet
gnats drifting in the glare all fairydust like
bees brusquely rushing about their bee-ish business
one buzzing soul still— silhouetted perfectly
seen at rest through a sunlit leaf
The vines hang suspended in midair
like arms reaching out to a beloved
springtime sun after a long winter's separation
A deep but light intermittent droning
rhythm of wings beating faster than hearing
into sight: a hummingbird
dips, weaves, hovers
Chirps (they chirp?)
Fearless does not flee but bobs
dips, and toward wondering human face weaves
humming briskly face to face
at less than arms length
Speaks—a monosyllabic word
repeats, looks back, repeats
is gone
Like these mornings
too quickly
too quickly
