HUMMINGBIRD
Ethereal in my hand, an iridescent female,
feathers fanned, beak wide open.
I place her in the hollow arbutus stump,
a stupa, covered with wild rose petals.
Did she expect a long life, more sugar water
at the feeder, more buzzing and display?
The glass tricked her
as images beguile us
into believing
this life will go on
and on,
this body will endure
in a certain way
of being.
Like the bird, enticed into flying fast,
we dash full force toward something glimpsed 
some truth longed for,
just out of reach, on the far side
where nothing is clear or certain.
