One morning after heavy rains,
Out on my porch to watch
The birds who feed on alms of grain,
I was waiting for the chickadees.

Just to the side from where I sit,
What was that sound I heard?
I look and there before me, whirring,
is a little hummingbird.

No sooner than I look his way
He takes off to the Hosta patch
From bloom to bloom he flits about
When, deeply quenched his thirst

He hovers near a rain drenched flower
Then lands so softly on its crown
That in the moment passing, I forgot,
 I was waiting for the chickadees.

Poetry and Photographs by Joyce Sweinberg  2004