You will have many friends if you need them
and one of them is this hummingbird hawk-moth
buzzing down into my garden as the day
closes and the bees disappear. I hear them
dip onto the pink heads of my tall village flowers,
even the ones past their best. The scent I can’t smell
fascinates my bird-moths, the letting-go
gradual, reluctant, the draw from the next
high flower catching, as it ruffles in the evening breeze
inviting the uncurling of a proboscis.
Just as the last swallows leave, the first bat
kinks its wings in crazy flight
lacing high overhead.
Me, I take the smallest footstep, stop—get
near to you, see exactly what you are.
Only a bird (or a moth) evolved to
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