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I was sailing on a leaf during a breezy, sun-filled afternoon when the feathered bards swooped near me, tempting me with their kaleidoscopic songs to jump. They hungered. But I sat defiantly, legs folded, watching from my leafy seat the world slowly twist, waiting for the hummingbird. Buildings and trees perked their ears and cocked their heads like dogs, gazing with intent perplexity at the gliding green heart. The sky was slipping into its ruby dinner dress when she appeared. Her glassy eyes and toothpick beak spoke of nectar-seeking curiosity. She studied me, hovering with helicopter elegance. But, unlike the metallic helicopter, her machinery was biological. Her wings treated the air as a giant drum, the pulsing vibrations whispering my name. That's how I knew to jump. And so I did, abandoning the frail, velvet vessel for that tiny crevice between her blurry wings.

I only wish to fall asleep with you, naked, under a blanket of velvet catalpa leaves.