Hummingbird

Unlike the rust-orange rufous
who flies long-distance marathons,
you flit from the red feeder
to the lean limb of the lilac bush,
choosing the same spot each time,
two feet beyond the patio door,
two feet from where I rest
on a blue leather recliner.

It’s a matter of comfort, I suppose,
away from the scrub jay’s constant
chatter and the squirrel’s mad dashes
along the fence.

You perch your sleek body
and needle-thin beak sideways
with one tiny black eye peeking
at me, and I wave.

You don’t move, and I think
how reliable we are—me,
with my just-below-the-knee cast
elevated on a pillow,
you, content with a slight breeze
and sheltered from the blazing
summer sun.

I turn the page of my latest novel,
and I’m caught in the familiar tangle
of words and the normalcy of our days.

Published by
California Writers Club, High Desert Branch