The Weight of Their Worlds on Their Shoulders

What do you do when a hummingbird flies
Up to within a handspan of your face

And hovers there, eyeballing you? Do you
Say to yourself, This is unusual

But not a weighty topic for a poem?
Do you wonder, in that long, buzzing pause

That actually lasts a second or two,
Like those moments in which the car might crash

Or the gun in the hand might aim at you,
What is this hummingbird considering?

It’s eye looks so dark. Have you alarmed it?
Do you look like food? Has it learned that food

Is often left out in sticky feeders
By large, slow-moving things that look like you,

Leaving hard flowers soon infested with ants,
With wasps and yellow jackets to fight off,

But bottomless until that one morning
When fuel is really needed, but it’s gone?

Do you squeal or call out to someone near
Because you’re human and you need to share?

Do you wait, then draft that non-weighty poem
Because you’re human and you need to share?

Say this for the bold, handsome hummingbirds
You’ve seen feeding—they show no need to share.