A hummingbird bounces on a note distant from the melody, 

carefreely chirping with

little regard for 

perceived aesthetics —

Yet, inexplicably, it allures me.

I string the steel to the keys

individually, plucking each,

the harmonics reverberating yet

still slightly off.

No matter what I do, 

it’s like they will never sound perfect.

I sigh and turn my back to the keys,

as the hummingbird flies off into the distance,

singing a scale which I had never once heard. 

The flapping of its wings slows, and it floats down,

perching on a petal of a quaint pink flower in the distance.

Its left wing seems to jitter as it struggles to crane its neck down,

but regardless of any discomfort, it pollinates the flower.  

It then wobbles back around

and awkwardly holds the left wing up, 

revealing its emaciated body.

And still I watch in awe,

as it bolsters the strength to fly back up into the sky.

I watch as it becomes a mere dot in the distance,

as the whirring sound of its feathers flapping fades out.

And I realize the piano is not out of tune.

In my mind, it exists in a dark, cramped conclave —

closed off by a bridge formed from years of people walking across it, 

closed off from any other sounds which don’t sound ‘right.’

I dream of the piano

growing wings and flying away,

sustaining a screeching sound as it

follows the lead of the hummingbird. 

And even with passing time, 

an imprint of the bird remains in my mind — 

how it easily flouted all expectations — 

the expectations for which many have been constrained by,

for which many have known no alternative.