Hummingbird

High above the sky
My feet weave in, then out
like silky strands of amethyst drawing
a sedentary
little life.
Perched, and not far from
friends, a fond disinterest,
branches lined with jay birds
teeter, in cornflaked sun.
It's strange the deep hole
that floods spacious forests
the icy, echo winds of
misplaced, once seeded, Grace
--sipping from creaking barstools
and chucking wine over
leaning, characterizingly hunched
with her elbows engraved.
Yet there's a stranger strange, even
in the flight of my peripheral portrait--
I smell sweaty exclusion, lift-off, and
dark, molten anxiety.
Looking back, I see
feathers, left by nothing.
Well it's terribly strange,
whatever we are now
living in a stark, humming tree.