![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimTC6V9mHEbrEZO6oHmhGOktQgR0VDqHP3s1ZtjI1LI1IsgXSXcpl3FGS3wHvssZtZBbn1_xHtFOU7mpFAzysfWXNW_43-N9nluQp6GaL1-Aa5cQtd_MiteV4psEpy55XwKeuG6QBKTQ4k/s280/HUMMINGBIRD-2_lg.jpg)
Hummingbirds
Too small to feel fear,
one arrives faster than sight
and then hangs, more jewel
than bird, at a flower,
wings worshipping speed,
a blur in the air.
Once picking up one stunned
by the glass, I felt that little
motor in my hand, a religion
that I know all the way up my arm;
abrupt as the universe was
when there was nothing
and God said,
"Go."
Sometimes like that you meet
what is real, touched alive,
a visit nobody arranged.
A day comes, tame you thought,
and you dream along just being you
doing a kind act: suddenly
you have a hummingbird in your hand.
William Stafford
Posted over on William Stafford Broadsides
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