The hummingbird found the gentle morning mist
rising from the spray of water
I was aiming at the brown leaves of a shriveled bush.
She circled round the edges of the mist darting in and out
to find the sweet spot—not so much that she’d tumble over
like a mainsail tipping toward the ocean surface from a rogue squall,
yet just enough to softly bathe her delicate suspended body.
The practiced undersized wings worked
to keep her airborne in the sweet spot
for what seemed a very long time.
Enraptured, I stood in her world dutifully offering a morning bath
until there was no her, no bush, no roots, no earth, no hose,
no me holding a nozzle.
Only Us suspended in the mist.
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Pam Pride, a sometimes poet
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