The burr of a Black Hawk helicopter in miniature
announces his arrival at the feeder, and perched
on the slender rim he slips the needle of his beak
into the metal flower and downs the hummingbird
equivalent of a pint like one of the boys at the local.
He’s fancy and he knows it, a jewel gleaming in the
morning sun, yet pugnacious as he is petite, and
should the thirsty neighbor fly near for a sip he’ll
streak like a dart to the target giving it down country
with the bullying beat of his wings.
Isn’t it curious that in creatures so lovely and small
there hammer such flagrantly inhospitable hearts?
Perhaps the expulsion from Eden was carried out by
a hummingbird when Eve sought forbidden nectar,
or maybe Darwin is right: survival belongs to the flittest.
©Dana Hughes 9.21.17
After the storm walloped the coast
and before it spun itself out like a
weary dervish in the mountains to
the west of here,
it took the pecan tree by the throat
and showing not a lick of mercy
throttled it ‘til the entire harvest
was flung down.
It’s too early for them to cover so much
ground, mounded in heaps of green
amid root and moss, their flesh still
thick and unyielding.
You gathered them anyway,
hauled them to the sink and washed the
grit away, then arrayed them with hope
on a yellow towel to dry.
May they ripen into sweetness,
shells hard and crackable, because
the pie you’re bound to make will taste
better if it’s brown instead of green.
©Dana Hughes 9.20.17
The need for more sky drove me west
from the canopied south.
It packed my bags, filled the tank and
blew the horn just once.
I was strapped in and champing before
we cleared the street.
Now I stand on a dusty knoll at evening
watching the sun pull
a cover of high cotton clouds to its chin
turning everything pink,
PINK I tell you, and dazzled I wonder
if the Maker gets as giddy
mixing colors as I do by merely looking up.
© Dana Hughes 9.17.17