The humming bird
A humming bird came through my open window.
It flew to every corner of the living room
and landed on the back of an old rocking chair.
There, it stood still.
But somehow it looked
impacient
unbalanced
and awkward.
The tiny talons moving nervously, uncertainly.
The keen eyes reflecting my own.
Then suddenly it took flight.
Raised to the ceiling, dived close the carpet
and zigzagged like a spark fled from a bonfire.
And like a dart, it dashed to the door,
blasting through the wood leaving behind no more
than a tiny hole
in the shape of brave wings of unpleasantry.
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