As the fog rises from the humboldt lagoon and elk parade their velvet twigs in the far meadow,
I balance the limp body of a hummingbird by its black pin beak. It’s belly dangles down like a finger puppet, the emerald scales of the birds ephemeral armor contracts easily with each flick of my wrist.
Blackberries are not yet in season,
But their heavy, fermenting perfume taunts me from the woods edge
Perhaps it is the mingled scent of queen Anne’s lace and foxglove,
Or a bed of pine needles baking in the sun,
Or perhaps it the phantom sweetness of summers past.
I toss the bird from my palm and it disappears with weightless grace into a crop of wild fennel.
We ate thrilled to have found this splendid cafe in Trinidad: poached egg bagels with the works.
FRANKY FRANCES CANNON 