jimlinsa

A friend of mine gave me a hummingbird. It was dead. He had had it for a while and it seemed perfectly preserved. I put it in a flowered box filled with cotton balls in which I was keeping a dead butterfly, along with two pieces of copal, and when I opened the box near the window the sun streamed in and all the iiridescent colors of the hummingbird awoke and sparkled just as if it was alive.


A route of evanescence
With a revolving wheel;
A resonance of emerald,
A rush of cochineal;
And every blossom on the bush
Adjusts its tumbled head, --
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy morning's ride.

-- Emily Dickinson