The kids whose house it now is
have no idea how the little
hummingbird got inside.

Perhaps it flew in through
open doors or screenless windows
amid all the renovation

transforming our mother’s
old place into theirs. Maybe
flitting into the hole in the eaves

that led it inside, and, trapped,
could not find its way out.
Or maybe it meant to stay,

not wanting to leave, not
intending to die, but in the end
falling to the floor in what

had been the library,
its busy wings stilled,
the infinitesimal heart

stopped, its iridescent
feathers like wee prisms
splitting light into rainbows,

still vibrant, as if it might
startle and stir before
zooming off into mystery.