His head is
at the window. The only
part
that sings.
— Amiri Baraka
a hummingbird
is not known for singing
it whirs
& blurs
at my window
at lavender, yarrow, sage
the beak, the tongue
tasting, feeding
I watch at the window
the red throat the steady mark
color a blur yet red, rufous
greater than glitter of
cobalt blue
emerald green
a hummingbird sings by being
by looking at me
at flowers
at the cat
mid-pounce
the moment when
bright colors
blurred motion
cease
now throat, head, wings
are black
a hummingbird thing
a bit between cat’s jaws
a bit never strung to a bridle
an unbridled act
the beak
now a spear
a thorn
pierces my window
two heads at my window
one bird
one cat
no longer any part
that sings
