It’s going about its business; heart pump fast as an eye-blink.
If it could think, it wouldn’t think of us, sitting around a table,
never noticing; all talking of what we do take in:  the high price

of gasoline, of fiddleheads, of war; touchy about immigrants or
global hotspots, depending upon the way father folds his napkin.
We never do much about any of it—never notice that just outside

our window, a hummingbird dips its loverly beak into trumpet vine
and bee balm in hanky-panky bliss—never seeks the same bud twice—
just tipples the sweet nectar and, too late we see, never looks back.