Woke with this rambling across my brain...
Of Hummingbirds and Stars
They frequent the rest stop just beyond the city--
I see them there often - her sitting, back against
a road-dusty tree, him always in motion.
Mid-twenties, I suppose; twins, I suspect.
No denying the family resemblance.
I call him my Star Lad. He tells anyone
who will listen the stories of constellations
filtered through clouds of ambiguity. He points
an oddly clean finger to where the stars
would be should it be night instead of noon.
She says her name was lost in the shadows:
she's looking for it; will know it when she stumbles
across it again. In the meantime, he calls her Songbird.
He's forgotten what it was or might have been.
She hums odd snatches of old music.
He gleans treasure from litterbugs,
sharing half-smoked cigarettes with his sister,
she, folding flattened wrappers into origami
magic. She hands me a star as he shares
the story of Cassiopea. They are the treasure.
And they look at me with hollow eyes that
have seen far too much, are always watching.
When I know I'll travel their way, I bring a hamper
of food, leave it behind her tree. Come the cold
they'll be gone. Migrating elsewhere.
I've yet to see them this spring. I wonder
if he's found fresh stars with new stories to tell,
if she's found her name or learned a new old song.
I like to think they are just around the bend
in the road, dancing around yet another tree.
Perhaps their story is best left unfinished
for then new chapters may still be written.