It sounds more like a motor
Than what I would call a hum,
Though a motorbird’s not fitting
As the name that it’s become.
I first heard it at the flowerpot
Before I saw it there,
Dipping in the purple blossoms
Near my green wrought iron chair.
I’m aware that red attracts them,
Like a bull on the attack,
So the visit was surprising
Since true red my flowers lack.
Yet perhaps they can’t be choosy
As they dart and flit and dip
And a bloom that’s pink or purple
Might provide a tasty sip.
All I know is I was happy
That a hummingbird stopped by
And it doesn’t really matter
If there was a reason why.
No comments:
Post a Comment