In just one day, the hummingbirds have disappeared.
I’ve done everything correctly: I’ve changed the sugar-water; I’ve left the backyard alone; I’ve waited patiently.
But still.
They’ve migrated on, perhaps perished, or have simply chosen other yards.
You can’t control anything.
It’s the way of things: Just like that, the iridescent joy lifts and moves out of reach.
I stare at the full but empty feeder. I sigh out a goodbye.
What can I do but remember the emerald, the ruby, and the purple?
What can I do but then seek new hope and new joy? What can I do but then turn to the vegetable garden and note the bright green basil, the emerging Roma tomato, and the coming eggplant, as shining purple as no vegetable should be, that I’ll slice together with parmesan cheese and broil for our meal?
I think of all the ways I turn toward new light.
I think of iridescence.
Turned towards the light, and suddenly, you have everything you thought you’d lost.