Poem No. 8

8.

Every silver morning these days

a hummingbird awaits

the sun

and me

on the highest blade of quivering bamboo.

He perches, still,

as the wind gusts around him.

The leaves tremble and he sways,

unruffled.

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

rising sun.

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

in clouds.

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

awaits us.

They all say, rest awhile.

Rest awhile.

Have a listen.

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