©1995 by Susan Noyes Anderson

The hummingbird outside my window flies
to drink of bougainvillea wine each day,
enticed by rich, magenta-colored prey
to claim the sweetest nectar as her prize.
She doesn’t pause to ask if this is wise;
and if her ins and outs become cliché,
sheer wings beat that much faster to display
a virtuosity the eye denies.
There must be something in this very act
that satisfies, or it would cease to be.
Truth slips again beyond the realm of fact.
These blooms are silk, yet she cannot break free.