Mindless of environs, absorbed with details, the hummingbird examines each fold and whorl. Seemingly waiting for some other action, a better pose, more secure perch.
The slightest quiver, barely perceptible, enough to chase away. Not far, over and over, return, flight, return.
Through tears, gazing at the wreckage, the monolith adjusts. Consciously not closing the distance. The quietest whisper a gale, glances literally piercing, to hold is to crush. Wings and bodies, still pathetically thrumming, litter the ground. Deep enough to impede movement, disguising the terrain.
No need for further discouragement, the approach, fraught and unsteady, barely passable, useless now. And still constant invitations form a steady, impatient stream.
Desperately surveying the field for clues, composing a bird's eye view for some strategy, hope, sense. No pattern, nothing meaningful.
Instead, every subtlety, innuendo, artifice gracefully evaded. All things direct overbearing. No middle ground, no common language. Instincts, even tuned with experience, constant dead ends, as testified by multiple mounds of writhing carnage splayed carelessly about where stood similar paths. Their existence doubtful, now, even to the one that tread upon them.
To turn is defeat, but forward, the cost precludes victory. Or, at least victory in any meaningful state. But more, how now to tell one victory for the other? Hope waning, grasps for comfort in stillness.
Patience, despised, spurned, convoluted, better than outright injury. Silence, a lonely companion.
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