Tiny fencemen perched upon pickets At rest, armed, armored, readied, coated In colors of the realm Vert, sanguine, argent Their ladies, less elaborately clad than they Hovering nearby, favoring their fellows With discreet flashes Of corresponding color
The prize has arrived Sky-mounted goblet Of immortal nectar Awaits he who proves worthy
The slightest of salutes And then . . . En garde!
Feint, feint, feint Expressionless ebony eyelets revealing naught Beat, beat, beat Gorgets furiously flashing Lunge, thrust, parry Foiled
Superior wingwork won the day
*
My four-month-old perches upon me transfixed Watching his hummingbirds dart before him Eyes matching them beat-by-beat Until his mates hum away He turns to me and our smiles meet Already knowing the answer, I ask “Hungry, Bub?” As our lady summons us from our nest nearby
The Commanders
This article appears in Moderne Beauty.