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Dave Bonta
i put a single stem
of beebalm – bright
red shaggy head – in
a green, wide-
bottomed wine
bottle & set
it outside to see if
the hummingbirds
would come
the first summer crickets
playing their rasps
pick right up where
they left off at
the intermission,
going on as if
this brief stage
The hummingbird of day has yielded
to the hummingbird of night.
With a single pair of feathers on his head
he flies on wings of mica
& finds his way with eyes
of yellow quartz.
Unlike his daytime cousin
he doesn’t do battle:
summer nights are short.
Flowers uncurl after sunset just for him.
Pry open the tight
bud of his thorax,
searching out the heart to eat for courage,
& you won’t find
anything that beats:
a maze of dry husks filled with moonlight.
what blooms at the dark
edge of the forest
a faded red that could also
be dropped leaves
the calling cards of drought
on a Saturday in mid-July
a monarch butterfly chrysalis
falls from the sky
with its golden ellipsis
too bitter a pill
for some young bird
still learning how to forage
blueberries ripen
cracks widen in the moss
the deer’s pelt twitches
under an endless assault of flies
Just after your departure,
I find half a hummingbird nest
and an old broken crock.
The sun comes out.
A fly circles the lip
of a purple crocus.
The kestrel hunting meadow voles
keeps returning
to the same electric line.
A male hummingbird
circles the metal pink
flamingo in my garden,
circles & touches it
with its all-purpose bill.
Amazed? Perplexed?
Combatative? Appalled?
The sun sinks behind
the trees & the first
katydids start calling
as the hummer zips
in for a landing on
the single rusty leg,
perching sideways
just below the tail,
& taps the pink wing
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.
Why should I be wondering
How you would look in black velvet and yellow ?
in orange and green?
I who cannot remember whether it was a dash of blue
Or a whirr of red under your willow throat —
Why do I wonder how you would look in hummingbird
feathers?
(A lover muses)
Flame-flower, Day-torch, Mauna Loa,
I saw a daring bee, today, pause, and soar,
Into your flaming heart;
Then did I hear crisp, crinkled laughter
As the furies after tore him apart?
A bird, next, small and humming,
Looked into your startled depths and fled....
Surely, some dread sight, and dafter
Than human eyes as mine can see,
Set the stricken air waves drumming
In his flight.
Day-torch, Flame-flower, cool-hot Beauty,
I cannot see, I cannot hear your flutey
Voice lure your loving swain,
But I know one other to whom you are in beauty