There is something at work in the words
That the words, so far, can’t understand.
Let’s say the words are poor photographers
Hunting through the frame for something they saw
Before there was any frame around it.
For instance, this teal and grey hummingbird,
Back again today, in a different place,
Investigating how these words are made
To realign themselves, homely rock cairns,
Really, piled by pilgrims, then by hikers,
Then by tourists in search of photographs,
Often of themselves standing in the words,
Oblivious of minor distractions
To the narrative of the great journey
That they’re industriously composing,
So that you barely see the hummingbird
Hovering so close you’d think its idling
Engine would have attracted attention,
Even if they just thought they’d heard a bee.
There’s that hummingbird, again, back in frame.