Wild Birds

A red-throated hummingbird, betrayed, begins the annual rite of packing up his nest, in response to the mercurial spinning of winds, and the twisted temperaments of weather. Distant friends once conspired together, chasing sunbeams, beak-seeking nectar beckoned from blossoms' tease, thoughtful temptations from the breeze who taught him to fly. Without warning, save the predictions of history, the wind turned her shoulder, hiding the cold, smell of snow on her breath belying denials of inclemency. Taking only what he needs, tucking it in next to his breast; an odd stick, a tuft of newborn lanugo for the sake of nostalgia, unhatched plans of a portico he had intended to build. Red bird perched on bare branch, in morning bids farewell, takes flight on desolate breath, his load less heavy now, having left his heart with the unsteady humor of sylphs.