by Kitty Boots
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Inspired by Moritz Thomsen's book, The Farm on the River of Emeralds, and the appearance of a female roufus hummingbird in my garden in December.
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Astonishing. I cannot imagine anything less salacious or how it came to be in this culture. But then we know some people who believe squirting Clorox up their bum cures covid. We are a curious species.
Mathew, my you are getting saltier! Thank you.
Moving work. The last line is like a hammer to the head - in a Dickinson sense. The piece is wonderful. It's darkness is its power. *
In Houston, I lived next door to the neighborhood bruja who scared the bejeezus out of some really macho guys who lived in the building. She didn't like me and things got out of hand, but I learned a lot from it all.
Hummingbird hearts.
Who knew?
This poem has an essence I recognize. It's magnificent.
*****
I hate to see the little birds get hurt!*
Thank you, Matt.
Thank you, Sam.
Thank you, James. Hummingbird hearts, I know.
Thank you, Tim. Other cultures, some beliefs amaze us, some disgust us, some just leave us puzzled. I used to see so many of these poor, dried up little birds in Mexico...
Makes me so sad.*
Thank you, Beate. I'm glad it stirred some emotion---good or bad.
Pearls before swine, emeralds among the stones.
beautiful imagery!
Thank you, Daniel.
Thank you, Agnes.
Ah, well, this is too good for a brief appreciation, but all I can do now: Bravo, Kitty!
Thank you, David!
Beautiful. As I read, it felt more like watching kaleidoscopic patterns than reading...
G.E. Simons, thank you, that's what I strive for!