A shuttering splash
of hovering green,
wings fast
as a lightning flash-
bright, thrumming,
and often
unseen.
This little bird
wakes earlier than
most pollinators to
dart from flower
to flower, wasting
no second of their
exclusive hours-
feeding, fleeing,
seeing the dawn
for its florid trumpets
and velvety violets
and moving on,
on,
on.
By the time butterflies
warm their
weary filigree,
the little bird has
drunk its fill,
then burned it off
entirely.
And so, they stay
amongst the fray,
racing through
the day,
productive to a
ravenous fault,
wasting if they halt.
These little birds rise
before the sun
to burn-
born
to gleam-
cursed
to bolt.
pm poetry 