Pause--and,---Hum

moon, 

this morning,

with so many openings,

it’s hard to choose which room

to be in—east and five a.m. pink

or west and the shadowed fore-

ground of this garden

 where hummingbirds

 have finally arrived. 

Before it’s well into dawn,

 I’ve propped my body

and a long lens on three books

 to pause, ever, at the dulcet

sound of this bird.  Beyond:

robins, thrushes, gulls.  Or

yesterday, one of a mating pair

of bald eagles, watched

from the town

 dock, awed and longed for. 

But these lithe furies,

little red-bibbed darlings

have my full focus

when they flit in and out

of the frame of the stairs and railing.

Secretly, though we'd rather

 majesty, our hearts dart

like such flight, a chit-wish

shot through the needle-

beak like, well, nothing’s

coming to me now, but it might

show up later, an image

to hover around

this cylinder of sweet

water, when the sun's

finally above enough of the channel's

lighthouse that now there’s no choice

at this point—

I think I can get everything,

I think I can click and click

and then wait and wait

 and wait

until I lay it all down,

caught and flown in all

this rising light

until it's just sun,

just sugar and water,

just day, unfolding.