Brink
A fickle branch, the door: her only thought
was of blue pansies, white pots, and a splurge
of camellias, thick as thieves. She sought
the hose, serpentine in shade. Past a hedge
of hollies, the earth dipped on the verge
of squishy, amid hard stones, nowhere eth-
ereal. All at once, the air was a death-
less between; like pure porcelain, her thumb
on the rim—no breadth at all—while her breath
slipped. Only then did the humming bird hum.