Curiously she fluttered
in and out of view.
An unsuspecting admirer
peered from the windowsill.
She knew
he was there.
He hoped selfishly
she would enter
room.
Humbled
he watched as she drank
from the fountain
picturing classy women
at horse races.
Two months later
he noticed a small nest
in an orb hanging from a tree.
Hummingbird hatchlings
with beaks smaller than a tack
vied for space.
This was no horserace.
There was no starting gun,
bets, sinew, or stress fractures.
He felt fulfilled like never before.
Chance and luck
bore him witness to
beauty in creation.
A pebble
had produced ripples in clear pond.
He, a lily pad,
wondered when the ripples would fade
hoping they wouldn’t
reassured by their rolling continuity.
The Bird's Song 