L.T. Garvin

The hum of wings

mid-air pause


my quick gasp of breath

at the sight

of the brilliantly colored throat

swift flight

eyes darting furtively

eyes that perceive

the smallest motion, a breath

In another time

other birds

have worshiped

at the brim

of massive orange trumpet vines

now becoming

folio sheets torn

from life’s old scrapbook

far away from

this place with its busy side street

murmuring memory banter

interweaving into

a symphony of honeysuckle

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