My writerly muse

I love the long beak of this bird
so like a writer’s  pen,
ready to dip into a nectar inkwell,
to fortify herself with a diet of words.
Sometimes a hummingbird
flits so quickly, it’s
flight so fast,
fluttering her wings
with such rapidity,
she is mistaken for an insect
or, worse, goes unseen,
like the 1851 winter here.
Her work is diminished
as that is a anonymous “lady”
as if anyone could have written
Rural Hours
with the same felicity.
Yet, her cover shows one bird
Distinct, clearly encouraging
the group on upper right
to distinguish themselves one
from the other while still
supporting the group
 for each to pursue
nectar, pollinate the garden—
support, yet without fear of a
solo, named flight.