top of page
That time a hummingbird flew into the coneflowers, extracting seeds from husks, its jeweled
throat bobbing, iridescent wings churning like copters. We sat motionless on the deck, too
entranced to finish our coffees. I reached for you, hardly daring to breathe. The boniness of your knuckles. Our bird trembling, sunlight drifting through petals. Wanting to cling to the moment while I was still in it, fluttering mid air, fragile as a soap bubble. Later, you found out
hummingbirds are smart. They can see ultraviolet light, remember every flower they’ve ever
visited. They do not mate for life.
Beth Sherman received an MFA in creative writing from Queens College, where she teaches in the English department. Her work has appeared in Portland Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, Sandy River Review, Bright Flash Literary Review, Fictive Dream and elsewhere. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and has written five mystery novels.
bottom of page