Self Portrait as a Hummingbird

A Hometown Poem

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The hummingbirds swoop overhead 
as the August afternoon sun dips down
on the horizon. I watch them swarm 
the flowers, ruby throated, so small, 
moving so fast, almost invisible as they dart 
from bloom to bloom, lighting momentarily
on the hanging feeder, flying off in a blur
of wing and feather. 

Experts say late summer is the best time 
of the year to feed hummingbirds. 
The young are around and the migrants are hungry, 
stopping for a good meal before heading out
on their journey, circannual rhythms whispering 
to them: summer is ending. 

The fragile birds get restless as the days shorten. 
The garden phlox and bee balm are beautiful, 
the sage so fragrant in the evening light. 
How nice it would be to linger, but migration 
is such an arduous enterprise, after all, 
one that consumes precious energy. 
There is only so much sugar, only
so much time. There is work ahead. 
They know it is time to go. 

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