There’s a bent bough at my window
where a sunbird visits at dawn.
His plumage of green and yellow
fluffed, he chirps while I yawn.
With his head cocked, he eyes me
like a prince knowing no fear.
Prince of the dawn, do you quiz me:
“Oh, you? Still here? Still here?”
Henry Quince lives in Australia. He’s a recidivist wanderer who has the urge under control — for now. Maybe. He’s been published in The Shit Creek Review, Umbrella, Soundzine, and a few other venues here and there.
