It looks like two small birds
In the sun-impaled hibiscus bush
But it's really only one moving very fast
From branches to the cups of new-made leaves
Where maybe a drop of water waits
Preserved like a purple pearl
Maybe this is its true function
Not the showy blossoms of its moods
But a simple offering to the birds
In the dead heat of summer
Why does it need to bloom at all
Except to celebrate itself at last
For having understood a little
A necessary song-bird's thirst
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