In the garden clicking quickens

streaking blurs thrum

spinning quadraphonic

feather-beats

materializing green and scarlet

as if by sci-fi transportation

one by one here then there

motionless but nonetheless

in brazen buzzing turbulence

hovering hungry

beneath pollen-dusted

slippers tipping

slender tendril

legs that dangle pink

from fuchsia skirts

and licking once

their lethal-looking

beaks with sticky whips

extend their nectar-seekers

to the hilt

their furious wings

translucent ghosts impel

the unseen scour of the sepal,

hunger never sated.