When the hummingbird
sinks its face
into the trumpet vine
into the funnels
of the blossoms
and the tongue
leaps out
and throbs
I am scorched
to realize once again
how many small, available things
are in this world
that aren't
pieces of gold
or power-------
that nobody owns
or could but even
for a hillside of money-----
that just float
in the world,
or drift over the fields,
or into the gardens,
and into the tents of the vines,
and now here I am
spending my time,
as the saying goes
watching until the watching turns into feeling,
so that I feel I am myself
a small bird with a terrible hunger
with a thin beak probing a dipping
and a heart that races so fast
it is only a heart beat ahead of breaking---
and I am the hunger and assuagement
and also I am the leaves and the blossoms
and, like them, I am full of delight and shaking.
Mary Oliver