The Hummingbird and Lint

I sat on the lawn and looked up from a John Banville novel

to see a green hummingbird flit into the

hole in the house where the dryer discharged heat and lint.

The hummingbird emerged seconds later,

carrying lint in her mouth and then

drank from a dripping spigot,

sucked nectar from purple flowers of the rosemary bush,

executed all these disparate intricate maneuvers,

like the expert maneuvering the flitting tavern people make

when they smoke, bullshit, drink, eat Hot Mama sausages

and gamble at the same time.