this is a form new to me, called a
Byr a Thoddaid
I sit calmly
on a June day,
eyeing the
hummingbird highway,
speed freak
avians zip and dive,
competing
for sweets, alive with color.
They feed or
die, small-hearted birds.
I sense
their grace, try to find words
which would perfectly
fit, aptly describe
the thoughts
inside their heads.
Of course, I
fail, my dear reader,
awed by the
crowd at the feeder,
displaying
their brilliance,
they dance
in the sky that is theirs alone.
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