In some distant tropical cloud forest
Where fragile wisps of mist
Fuelled by altitude,
Spread like gloved fingers
With malicious intent,
Hummingbird feed;
Flecks of iridescence –
Their beaks probing,
Searching for the next meal.
Three thousand miles away,
Where clouds are thick
But the forest is no more,
A family of sparrows
Bouncing balls of inquisitiveness
And hope,
Have learnt, over a season,
To hover,
To feed and
To live.
Elegant they are not.
But each is beautiful
In its own way.

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