A burly man bursts
into the un-air conditioned space.
An old woman jumps—her toothless Yorkie
snaps at his ankle. Beard sweat flecks
bystanders as he dodges, stomps
just left of a pink cat carrier, cuts
two disgruntled sisters in line, and thrusts
his cupped hands at the startled vet.
A hurried exchange takes place.
The two lean in.
His meaty hands unlock:
a hummingbird.
Its emerald head
catches the light,
licks at the sun.
Wings trill—
the bird launches into a wall.
The man scoops the creature
back into the shelter of his palms.
Everyone waits
as the vet discourages hope
but nonetheless fetches a pipet,
demonstrates how to feed in sips.
The pipet seems too small for his fingers.
But he leaves with it,
and with the bird, reciting
(like a whispered incantation)
the sugar-to-water ratio
for nectar.