Fake Out
I woke to a whirring hum—
not the low drone of memory,
but the sharp, electric flick
of a question with wings.
Languorous molten air,
a stone canyon furnace,
and there!—
a hummingbird—
head cocked—
beady eyes peering at me—
beak poised at the gate of my breath—
as if to sample my soul—
or wake it back to life.
It must have thought me
a flower on a barrel cactus,
faked out by my red bandana,
and seemed surprised when I stirred
but didn’t fly away.
What was this small
multicolored messenger
from the spirit world
sent to say?
It hovered a heartbeat longer,
weirded out by my half-wild smile,
then zipped away sideways—
like all good mysteries do,
and left me feeling exultant,
and the day feeling brand new.
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