Both sides now

The view from inside the glass house distorts: every darting wren looks like a stone. Only the hummingbird seems driven by harmless desire. She hovers, hangs in place for a long moment, bill millimeters from the pane, still – apart from the fury of her wings. But of all the ranked blossoms, what can she see? At best, a faint wash of exotic hues. What’s drawn her in is green, hateful green – guerrilla foe who blocks her every advance, matches her zig for zag but will not, will not engage.