Flash of Wings

                                            in memory of my Aunt Jean

Hours before the western sun sank beyond reach,

as the eastern sky dropped low, heavy

with swelling rain, heard through a quiet

wind like a Hopi legend, cupped

in its carriage: a tiny bird.

 

Even the myth-makers have no words

to explain how a tiny creature

could humble such a larger one.

The shaman may claim it’s the bejeweled

wings and brilliant presence like a cluster

of emeralds surrounding one ruby.

 

More humbling still is its hover and flash

of wings and gravity-rebellious upright-midair stance

like gorilla or man beating its chest —

proud, protective — and its sudden rest

to suckle nectar then dart to perch

 

at the blood-red gift half-filling translucent

globe, sweet liquid contributing life

to this tiny traveler passing over this patch

of earth with its scrub of dogwood and myrtle — 

sky messenger on Her mission — seeking, sucking,

 

swallowing life, fast wings humming

like a moan, soaring

in a blink into a sky

pale as bone, with help

from a third wind, lifting

its tiny form up beyond sight

 

to speak with the August clouds,

leaving a piece of the planet pondering

the brevity of our own days here, believing

this world is not our last address, listening

as Mother Nature speaks the sentences

 

of our lives; leaving us breathing

wholly.  Holy.



© 2007 DJ Gaskin