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Hummingbird Ghost
A flicker of wings,
a breath of color suspended
between here and gone.
They say the dead return as birds,
hearts restless, beating too fast,
as if trying to outfly time.
The hummingbird lingers,
drinking deep, trembling,
as if it knows the flowers will fade,
as if it knows the light is dying.
And then—
It is gone,
leaving only the whisper of wings
and the hush of something unseen.
Copyright ©
Rhonda Elliott
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