A blur in the periphery,
like the mind if the mind
were airborne, a buzz among
leaf and orange blossom,
the long beak pressing quick
into flower after flower, high
on each sweet center, and
each iridescent feather shines
hard—a thought, half-formed,
charged, a hum before it lights
on the branch—and you
see it clearly—dimmed, now,
small, no longer what it was.