Hummingbird

When Polyhymnia sends refracted light shimmering toward parched and shriveled roots, seeking some semblance of promise kept alive between her hands, her well, her seeds and soil,

A bit of fluff, a female Anna's, comes to perch nearby, cocking its tiny head and waiting. Waiting for the hose to steady its cold blast toward some fainting eggplant

or tomatillo, ready for a burst of aimed delight, catching one rainbowed drop of water short, then flitting to the fence again, shivering. To the Muse of hymns and farmers it's

a game, to the throbbing ball of feathers more. Its heart will stop without the gift of rain.