Hummingbirds remind me of my late mother. They’re small, beautiful and extremely quick — alive and abuzz with energy.
I shot this photo over the summer and have been meaning to post it ever since. It’s not the most technically superb of images, but I was proud just to have snapped a clear view of one of these little birds.
|I can imagine, in some otherworld|
|Primeval-dumb, far back|
|In that most awful stillness, that only gasped and hummed,|
|Humming-birds raced down the avenues.|
|Before anything had a soul,|
|While life was a heave of Matter, half inanimate,|
|This little bit chipped off in brilliance|
|And went whizzing through the slow, vast, succulent stems.|
|I believe there were no flowers, then,|
|In the world where the humming-bird flashed ahead of creation.|
|I believe he pierced the slow vegetable veins with his long beak.|
|Probably he was big|
|As mosses, and little lizards, they say were once big.|
|Probably he was a jabbing, terrifying monster.|
|We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time,|
|Luckily for us.|
One of these days, I will tire of shooting flowers. But that day hasn’t come yet. “Too easy!” you say. And, yes, it’s true. I’m a sucker for beauty.