 |
As Hummingbirds Go. . . |
|
These guys are buzzards. Their voices sharp and shrill rattle the early evening. The fluffy one in her ordinary plumage will sweep in, all territorial and shit, and start zinging off curses as if she spent half her life sucking sugar water out of phony flowers around some port of call where sailors are the flavor du jour. The smaller one in subtle milk chocolate evening wear is a zipper. Zip in, zip out leaving the barest tattle-tale purr in her wake, her thirst sated lick-suckety split. He in his gaudy mid-life crisis flash takes the heat fluttering from tree-top to electrical wire to porch and quick perch. His darting is what keeps him thin. Rarely does he stop to emit a retaliatory squalling. He's all noise when he does, and much like him not very substantive either. He buzzes in, dips his beak and refuels. The fluffy brown is never quite quick enough to do anything but buzz at his tail feathers. They've triangulated now. Zip behind a leaf, Fluffy on guard and He walking the wire. |
1996 © 2006 |