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The Holding of the Hummingbird                              By                          El Aluya The question mark of a beak, Chinese black ink and spear long, kept hitting the hard surface of a Red Sea that never parted. Unrelenting the flexible helicopter charged the clear waters of a glass, transparent like air, unable to cross it. Rethinking its hovering position  it struck again, more like a pocket knife in a fight than a bird’s beak. The light lifted its wing’s colors to a flutter of disciplined feathers dancing a frenzied unison Fandango, turning in its pliés iridescent blues,   malachite greens, and carnelians, its black tail stilled like an anchor. From inside my car in the garage I noticed the moves and watched hypnotized before moving forward. Its tiny heart pounded in my hand like an African drums’ orchestra, its long neck stretched to a snap, body pressed hard against my palm. As an echo my drummer pounded inside my chest with our shared fear.          To calm us both, I whispered a sweet lullaby slowly walking to the open sky. Suddenly, it looked into my eyes and let go, its soft feathers resting in my hand. When I opened it, it flew high up without ever looking down. Alicia Viguer-Espert

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