Flying Colors

I feel a presence, and the hummingbird Hangs at the window when I lift my eyes. He peers in, his tail fanned and his wings blurred; Aggressively ignoring my surprise, He trains his thin black bill upon my chest, As if to criticize the way I'm dressed. His scarlet gorget shames my staid blue tie, But what becomes him would, on me, look gaudy. We're further differentiated by My three-pound brain and his one-tenth-ounce body. And yet we share the dual attitude Of being both the viewer and the viewed. He bobs once and appears to indicate That something's been proposed and we've agreed; And then, not needing to accelerate, He shoots from neutral straight to hyper-speed And down the canyon, where penstemon flowers Offer their calories and pollen showers. I don't resent his flight to quench his thirst; It's good he's slightly knocked the day askew: You can't collect your wits till they're dispersed. I drop my eyes again, returning to The briefcase which I'd just begun to load And which sat gaping through this episode.