Gracefully twisting from a dormant seed to a flower,
The golden wings, a blur.
Quickly settling down
on a thin, gray tree branch,
That trembles under their weight.
Small, pure black beaks
lift into the air,
Searching for the others.
Sunlight peeks through
the cracks of the tree leaves,
Small, smooth feathers
Whose dew seems to shine from its blade of grass,
touched by a taste of blinding white
feathers that outline their miniscule iris’s,
Blending into the yellow below.
Another dives for the sagging bark,
Arching the small of the grassy back,
Spreading the phoenix feathers to the limit,
Beating lemon-yellow wings to the frail branch
like a rhythmic gymnast.
Flipping and twisting,
Majestically diving the way
to the branch, where the rest await
the arrival. Absorbing the warmth,
Sleek blades of soft grass,
Small claws finally clutching the grey branch.
The sun-touched, grassy Bee-eater.