Hummingbird Hospitality

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

Pecan Pie

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


More Sky

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