Collide

Phillip Brown

The hummingbird helicopters
just outside my window—
a quivering glare of green
behind the glass;

the green of new things,
of quick things—

and I am amazed
by its delicate construction:
the slender blade of its beak,
the bright aluminum of its narrow frame,
the electricity of wings so swift
they can barely be seen—
sparks of sunlight shooting
off their razor edge—

everything fueled by that
tiny motor of a heart
thrumming in its chest.

Up to 2,000 beats per minute
I am told.

The hummingbird lingers
for a single moment,
then darts away towards
the honeysuckle vine
fountaining over the back fence.

There, a blossom nods
gently in the breeze—
the flame-colored trumpet
of its body, with its golden center
looking like an open lantern—

and as the bird hovers near,
still buzzing,
I wonder if, perhaps,
the plush petals, the glossy leaves,
will be clipped from the vine
by the green scissors of
its sharpened wings.

Time seems to hesitate
a little, as the two drift closer,

then collide.

And I hold my breath,
staring,
as they dance,

and the hummingbird
slakes its thirst, sipping
the sugary oil—the offering
of the flower.

Briefly,
both seem to ignite
as if some inner fire
leapt into being upon contact,

and then the honeysuckle,
left unscathed,
dims—emptied of its light—

and the tiny bird flitters away
on its mechanical wings.