When I left the southern coast, I bid farewell to hummingbirds,
never thought I’d see a calliope, rufous, or ruby-throated again—
yet in the northwoods summer, as the world slowly opens up,
a figure needles the dusk with her little mouth in the late light,
humming in the pines like a helicopter rescue gladly fueled
by the nectar of a red cosmos: those whom you love will follow
wherever you go, one way or other. God calls beloveds by name,
soft as rain bleeding on a lake. Don’t fret about the way north
or wonder where to go when the bay freezes over. This inlet
where the water, the trees, and the land meet will remember
the bird flying under a flushed moon, ruddy from wildfires
ravaging the other side of this land: now climate migrants
seek refuge by the great lakes, old footprints of glaciers—
and hummingbirds will greet us after the husky winters.
Photo by Zdeněk Macháček on Unsplash