We Breakfast With Hummingbirds

that signal arrival
with urgent zooms of unseen wings
and--less expected--wet short squeaks.
They cruise the feeder, all cantilevered tails
and jabbing beaks, then cross the dead lawn
to the morning glories,
whisk over vines, abrupt
as cursors, tasting this blue one,
that pink, then up into the crepe myrtle's
cheaper frills. Each time, we put
down tea and peaches, stare
and listen. They fly at last out of
the yard's frame: this isn't art,
just artificial nectar, irrigated dance.
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