I spy
an acrobat sitting in wild roses,
quietly hiding on a scraggly stem.
I see you playing sentinel
in the gleam of sunlight,
as breezes buffet you about.
Resting from your spirted crusade for
fragile survival.
Fierce sky diver, you are,
guarding fountains of life — I enjoy
feeders put out by the porch
for the viewing pleasure
of your flying circus.
Thoroughly enchanted, as I am,
by hummingbird daring
and arial gymnastics,
Never retreating
gallantly fighting
you’ve won a truce.
Much like a dashing swordsman
brandishing his blade,
you never fail to challenge rivals, demanding to sup within your borders,
hungry for sustenance from your altar.
Invaders (like yourself) buzz
the sky blue nave, threaten plunder;
rising from your daily devotions,
you fly to defend your sacred air space.
One dives out of the sun
grabs a quick sip from the feeder.
Perched on the sacred chalice,
head bowed in thanksgiving,
A ruby throated opponent
drinks life’s blood — jumps
straight up,
sword extended,
ready to duel.
Leaping into the air
you swoop in behind,
then down one side —
Two robust knights
enjoin a feathered joust.
A swirl of wings flutter — a mile a minute —
Never tiring.
One sneaks a drink from the sacred cup.
You take umbrage; consider his trespass worst than heresy; dive bomb him away,
drive him far from your liturgical space.
You helicopter up and down
hover holy ground,
Then for no reason, call a truce,
zip off for sabbath.
In the break from chasing,
you find a quiet roost,
sit proudly knowing,
boundaries were defended,
rule enforced.
One flies to rest on a limb,
the other perches nearby on a
low live wire.
Both weigh renewing their campaign
for the Holy of Holies.
No sign of contrition,
No grand procession touting victories,
No sign of shame or bitter weeping.
Tiny green wings remain sturdy and unruffled,
no sign of worry for tomorrow.
Your alcove of rest provides
room for honest belonging.
The sentinel continues unmolested:
King for the moment !
Perfect awareness of a sacred calling,
a silent presence before the altar,
No distress or blame,
No thought of shame:
Just playful acceptance of
fleeting transcendence.
THH
8/25/25
Thoughts Have Hands 