The first hummingbird of the day (David Chorlton artwork)
Three-twenty-one in dove time.
The moon has turned its white face
toward infinity. The sunlight
is restless with a slow breeze pushing
it from where it tries to land.
A short way down the street
the house for sale is lonely
without so much as a smile to occupy
its rooms, although the mockingbirds
outside it sing
their isn’t it peaceful here song.
The sidewalk shines its afternoon
shine, a ninety degree No Man’s Land
occupied only by grackles
pulling their calls out of the sky
to warn the silence they are keeping up
their vigil over what
surrounds them. The hummingbirds
are clocks whose hands never stop.
Four-thirty-eight has reached
the mountain ridge, and flows down
to the lantana universe where
each second blooms
into nectar.
