Two inches flitting by, a needle beak

Plunges into scarlet petals, thirsty

From a thousand-mile journey. Mustn’t speak

Too loud now, been waiting since last Thursday,

When first I heard the hummingbirds were back.

The skittish little ruby-throats appear

When winter’s chill gives way. We leave a sack

Of dryer lint for their nests.  They wear

What’s left of winter plumage ’till the sun

Beats warm on the flowers that my garden

Gives up to them.  They drink and then they run,

Fickle, to some other chintzy bargain

Feeder in a neighbor’s yard.  But each year

They come back to us, knowing food is here.