We returned that cool autumn day
to bright flecks of yellow
peeking through verdant strokes,
splashes of red soaking our eyes.
Joe pie, jewel weed,
Singing symphony of wildflowers
painted the meadow past the stream
We savored our little world
from our perch on the porch.
Yet there was a void.
Our red hummingbird feeder was dry.
We filled it with sweet water
and waited for our little neighbors
to dart in, hover,
dip their needle beaks and tongues
Into the nectar
and dart away.
But no darting, no hovering
those tiny feathers already
riding the winds
Sacred traces suffice
Michael Shen: I was born in China, but have lived in this country for over 70 years. I graduated from the University of Chicago in 1969, and have worked as a psychologist, carpenter, and, for over 30 years, a civil rights lawyer. Several years ago I retired, and began writing poetry.