Every silver morning these days
a hummingbird awaits
on the highest blade of quivering bamboo.
He perches, still,
as the wind gusts around him.
The leaves tremble and he sways,
Imagine yourself resting on a redwood branch,
above the fog,
the wind playing with you.
Will you play with the wind?
The hummingbird fans his feathers.
I say hi.
I like to think it’s our call and response.
I say good morning and he opens his tail.
I say you’re beautiful and his wings spread.
The orange of him is the
One day this week, in weighty cold,
with a storm on approach,
he announced the rhythm of rain.
He beat his drum
twice and then a little
faster than the beat
of my heart.
When he was done, I stood in the light rain
and found the sun glancing through a break
We are birds, watching,
collecting the color.
This is how we pray
and enter gatherings in other worlds.
This is how we journey
to other lands
where the advice of trees and birds and winds
They all say, rest awhile.