inheritance

In the middle of the night, when two hummingbirds meet,

one flaunts its pretty plumage while the other admits defeat. 

To court: nature’s reflex, a biological birthright.

It cascades to consequence, neither bird with foresight.

Thus, the first gift would be passed to the first in line,

the knack for seeking shiny things: the eye of the magpie.

Tiny pretty things, tricked by the glimmer of the glass.

Now, where were those hummingbirds to answer the questions he would ask?

Fallen from the nest, the second gift would become,

to survive the forests’ shrub: the falcon’s quiet, trained tongue.

A melody unlike the songbird, twisted to notes of only one.

Would the hummingbirds cry if they knew what had been done?

The gift of discernment, an heirloom tossed down the bark,

would be the third inheritance the little chick would mark.

Tempered by distortion: the cursed conscience of the owl.

Are the hummingbirds still to blame after their early midnight howl?

These gifts, plagued with a cost higher than first drafted.

The chick thrust to the frontline of the war that you started.

Armed with the double-edged blades fated to misfire,

these truths, paved bleakly in the legacy that you’ve mired.

Sip from the chalice, a drop of poison, 

raise my voice as it touches my tongue.

These are the things that I will never become.

Bathe in the secrets both lost and always found.

Thicker than water are the ties that keep us bound.

Our line bends here, yet does not break.

No more shall bear the burdens that these legacies make.

In the middle of the night, the next time two hummingbirds meet,

the ritual that once befell them, they will refuse to complete.