A Walk To Carter's Lake
Look, above the creek, hummingbirds in the trumpet vine.
Not too close, wait. See the green blurs
stitching the leaves?
Here at the edge of the millennium
I don't imagine
you'd call them anything as archaic as angels.
But aren't they agents of a sort, and secret,
dissolving and solidifying,
spying from their constantly shifting perches of air,