Against glass —
that fluttering noise,
like the beating of
feathers at the broiling
embers, in a tea ceremony:
Just that sound, that
I heard once,
seconds only — in time,
sitting there
in Kyoto.
But it is a hummingbird
that’s come into my
house, trying to
leave, through glass:
I fret, the feathers
Like little emeralds,
falling to the faded
kilim — the brilliant
new, against threads,
sun bleached in respite.
Getting out, or coming
in — we see our way
but we cannot get through;
and bang away, like
hummingbirds, flickering
Our wings, battering
the panes of that
which holds us in place,
against movement:
in any way, ever.
This bird calms
for a moment —
holding it, heart
vibrating like a
tiny clockwork
It pauses, in
reflection, then
flares away, a fleet
bundle of gems
and, like me, sometimes,
Looks back, to
see where it was,
when it was held
by nothing
of consequence.