Some Questions for a Hummingbird

What is it like when you begin
to draw less nectar from fewer flowers
on each weaving course as the
zenith sags with the passing days?
Was this foreseen? Was this a part of the flitting
dialogue used to fill up the time
of each long day of the thousands
of kilometers flight just ahead of
the tropical rains, just in front of
the parching desert sun? Or was it a mild,
earthen betrayal? Cooling shoulders
at a party filled with friends
until eye contact was lost
and pistils and stamens
became close-guarded by corolla, still beautiful
behind closed glass doors. In either case
an assessment of stores needs be made. Either
studious with ledger and account numbers
or tactile in how your insides have swelled
with stored fat and begin to sensually rub
under feathers. In the dawn you wake slightly hungry now
but ready to face the sun and a distance one
billion times greater than that which separates
your beak from your tail. A flight over a
world studded with open blossoms and backed
by a tide of wind to sweep you to a
roost under the leaves of a catalpa. What I
want to know is if you can carry me there;
a mite in your feathers to that soft, warm place
so far away from this listing, autumnal world?
Away from this Byzantinnian life interwoven
with fog, sand, and honey suckle. Could you take me along?
If you did, how would I ever get back?

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