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.