I sat on the lawn and looked up from a novel
and saw a green hummingbird flit into the
hole in the house where the dryer discharges heat and lint.
The hummingbird emerged seconds later,
carrying lint, and then,
took a drink from a dripping spigot,
sucked some nectar from the rosemary,
executed all these disparate intricate maneuvers,
like the expert maneuvering
the flitting tavern people make
when they smoke, talk, drink and gamble at the same time.