At the patio gate, a young man towering - his crowning Afro, black motorcycle jacket with golden dragons, a helmet dangling from his hand as casual neighbors we pass sometimes but now, as I approach, arms full of books and groceries, he flags mysteriously with spare sign, one lifted finger a whisper ``hummin'bird'' ...

it darts from a yellow rose to wall of pyracantha, desert sunlight strikes to fire its green plumage vermilion-tipped head and throat

for a moment removed - the city's rackety blast of motorcycles trash trucks at the dumpster music piped from open windows

we stand listening to the hum of an infinitesimal tempest, wingspin of a tiny bird.

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