On this
six hundred billionth day,
the sun burns off
the fog by ten,
and thirty golden
honey bees
suck nectar from a riot
of aeoniums
smothering the stony bank.
A lone
ruby-throated
hummingbird sips
the yellow bursting blooms
that bedeck the thirsting aged
prickly pear
that grapples with
the fractured chert
chiseled in the hillside cut.
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