By Fred Miller
With his wee feathered coat shining bright, he darts about in a blaze. A happy little fellow, he romps from flower to flower. I want to ask him if his tastes ever change. Do his wings make a hum, does he whistle, can he sing? Like a bee, he races this way and that, his wings in a whir. Won’t you pause for a moment and tell me your name? Ah, maybe he’s just late for the Mad Hatter’s party, or perhaps he’s part eagle full of fluff, a puff of pride. Resolute with no hints of a waiver, he scoots from blossom to bloom, then stops on a dime and turns, his head at an angle. No time to talk now, no time to tarry, I’ve rounds to make, countless rounds to make, he seems to say. And he’s gone.
Fred Miller is a Californian writer. Over ninety of his stories and poems have appeared in publications around the world over the past ten years. Many may be found on his blog: https://pookah1943.wordpress.com