It must have been something about Monday
or the dry summer evening, making me
unsure of whether I’m bird or moth

but feeling small, rolling out my tongue
into the center of a honeysuckle
blossom, flapping frenetically

to hover against sunset’s breeze
and hold my space in front of the flower.
A hummingbird twice my size trills by

toward an imposter, a red glass feeder
on the porch. Funny how the humans look
up and smile at the birds, watching softly

but when they spot me, they squint and stare
confused, grab their cameras,
try to catch my likeness

held in stillness—the lifelessness
of my orange and gray wings
against the backdrop of a high desert.

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