We find it too late. Its beak,
a delicate sword, stuck
in our patio screen. It should be
buzzing, vibrating. Searching
for the sweetest sip
inside every flower.
But the busy wings
are silent. Stilled.
We are busy too. Home
for only a few moments
between errands. “She’s dead?”
My daughter’s voice betrays
that she knows the answer.
Outstretched,
in a corpus of Christ
pose, the hummingbird
is beautiful. And terrible.
“We should bury her,”
comes the tender-hearted
voice of my girl. “Oh—we need
to pick up your brother. Get you
to class. There’s nothing
for dinner. I need to stop
at the store.”
She’s silent. “We can
put it under a tree. Cover it
with leaves. We have to go.”
She shrugs. Looks away.
I walk to the other side
of the screen. To free
the bird, and us. While its chest
shines black, like a crow,
its back is green. Iridescent.
A gentle tug, and it’s cupped
in my palm.
She’s light
as a penny.
And sacred.
Her feathers glow
onyx and emerald
beneath Florida’s
scorching sun.
I meet my daughter’s eyes.
“You know where the spade is?”
She returns from the garage
in an instant. “You pick
the tree.”
I follow her
to the magnolia.
We rest the still-shining
hummingbird
inside our freshly dug hole.
Cover her with earth.
Go on with our day.
Months later, I’ll realize
it’s the most important thing
we did that summer.
