The Hummingbird

A blur in the periphery, like the mind if the mind were airborne, a buzz among leaf and orange blossom, the long beak pressing quick into flower after flower, high on each sweet center, and each iridescent feather shines hard—a thought, half-formed, charged, a hum before it lights on the branch—and you see it clearly—dimmed, now, small, no longer what it was.