There are days I see the broad shape of earth in the clouds arriving ahead of wind and snow, tails feathered to a point evaporating ether like in ice clear sky We can only guess at the cold they announce racing battle pennants for a promised storm The rattle of their casting bones driving us to shelter
Today they are still here,
and I am too, in late September.
My hummingbird pair. One darts in
to feed, the other perches
drinking deeply, tipping her head back
to let the nectar slide.
I feel that energy sweet and cool
down my throat.
Their absence looms, a large bell
with muffled clappers tolling
unopposed, reddening the trees,
exiling light, ushering in cold.
Lately the question, will they
visit me again, or will there be
someone else looking out my window
twelve months on?
Each year it is harder let them go,
as if there were a choice.