New York City

Splat, goes the familiar shrewdness against the glass of former fluttering hummingbirds with ADHD. In a second: Twenty-one heartbeats Fifty-three wing flaps. Travelers to a thousand blooms a day, sucking from sweet-smelling sites, the photosynthetic Light Stealers— sometimes reflecting, sometimes shadowing the busyness of luggage-hauling ants, beetles nibbling, and sputtering daddy long legs because outside seems indoors beneath their canopy of industry— turning the countryside into rush hour and slurping the best before the busy bumble bees, these tourists flew in from high in the comb to see the towering flowers, hoping for prosperity. To them, hummingbirds are discursive and frantic— riddled crazy— leaving a legacy of mystery by ignoring the day. Mmmm, goes the escalating hum from rapid wings and bee motors like the crescendo of car horns in a city jam.