My father sings

to hummingbirds. We

used to wait and hear

his voice with the guitar,

or in the pews at church. 

Once, I heard him sing

over the hum of a vacuum.

But now, he sings to hummingbirds. 

 

We call them his children. 

“Your children are hungry,”

we say when the sugar water

runs dry. And he fills the feeders

promptly. “Little birdie,” 

goes the song, as they buzz

around him, anxious for a drink. 

 

He feeds them well, keeps

those red feeders full for those

green and white bellies. And

they grow accustomed

to the sugar water. They don’t

have to find food on their own

because he is there.

I do.