There are two hummingbirds
sipping from the honeysuckle vine in the backyard.
They have an errand. They gather life
from the flowered coven of sticks
like Greek sisters picking olives.
When the mornings heat makes a heavy blanket
covering everything, the birds leave.
The houses whisper to each other in raspy voices,
leaning over like old uncles trading stories.
Under the street, dreams circle in light boats.
I stand by the pool listening to the water trickle.
Any minute now, a shining, a siphoning of whats left.
As the day’s heat slides up the spout,
the hummingbirds return like flaring tattoos.