Unlatching sockets to traverse pivotal wings in a nimble twinkle; a bobbing waltz to nurse on the partly-closed periwinkle. Stippled crown in a mock of green, damasked scarlet splotch on the fore; a trifling whir in Breeze's between; a whisk drop from Wind's pore. The Sovereign to this speck does supply, before the wrinkled petals close, for when the periwinkle's nectar is dry, there it is guided to quiescently quaff a rose. The dull flapping birds surrender theirs; bee's buzz is made dumb, groaning to esteem in the presence of this feathered, ethereal hum.
Reason for writing:
A poem Emily Dickinson wrote on a hummingbird. However, this is entirely my own
Birth sign: Not entered
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