Rain cascading to the Earth, like mist on Grandma’s petunias,
two sisters’ overused hands clutch umbrellas.
We embark on a trip to the woods,
motive unclear.

Resting on lichen-encrusted rocks,
we watch.
Hummingbirds weave in and out of raindrops heavier than themselves.
Ruby necks glisten against the storm-filled sky.

Petite, precise, picturesque.
One pauses, taking an extended drink from the fragrant Mum,
seated in the musty soil beneath us.
Don't move, one sister whispers.

Refined movements sort flowers,
yearning for sugary nectar.
In its search, a petal falls, shaken loose by the bird’s desperation.
The petal drifts downwards, onto my mud-splattered shoe.

A gift, similar to a thank you note,
we’ve no thought as to why we were thanked.
Perhaps we weren't meant to know.
You’re welcome, little creature.