Nearly Hovering

It is easy to imagine
on the first sunny day in a week
that the blur and whoosh of feathers
are messages from the places Love is made.

Hover near the bee balm,
breathless and steady,
and the thwirring sound of souls
in the dull green body armor of a hummingbird
will focus the mind as quick as her wings
will take her.

Gold finches,
gracefully chase each other in the birch
and hop from Black Eyed Susan,
delicately eating those impossible seeds
and lighting in the thick grasses not yet harvested
by our haying farmer.

Listen for the pattern
of cardinal calling
like a punctual monk chanting Psalms.
Even before the sun rises
he is waking all the aviators.

You don't need a passport,
or even luggage,
to take this trip
where languages
need no translators
to make sense
of all this joy
lifted to the sky
in nearly weightless prayers.