The datura flower 

Gently wails its trumpet 

Early morning

Summoning the hummingbird.

His flutter resonates 

With reverberations from the call

Forming gentle tessellations 

That tremble dew drops on the petals,

Each drop, reflecting his eyes 

In hemispheres.

Hovering, he traces 

Each petal’s edge

With the tips of his feathers.

He draws his vision

In each tiny drop

That she releases

And lands on his face 

Like scintillating stars, 

Blending with the steam 

Rising from his crown,

As he lingers at the clefts, 

Breathing, surrendering.

Intermittent gentle wails of the trumpet —

Unfurl the petals wide

To reveal the floral spike

Now dripping in turmeric gold.

Mesmerized by the aroma,

He gently twirls the lobes

Tasting the forbidden hallucinogen.

They are transfigured —

Into the desert evening breeze 

Where the shaman stills his delirium 

And turns their world 

In the color of the bluedeer.

With chants and percussion 

She summons the spirits —

Sitting on the rock

Placing beads in her canvas,

Tracing the hummingbird 

With her needle and thread.

In her vision — 

His head wreathed in flames, 

He emerges from the canvas

Engulfed by the unfurling

Pink peony.

Her spirits guide him

The way she wants —

To slipstream the edges, 

Slide the curls

One at a time,

Taking turns with his crown on each petal.

In the warmth, the pink curls 

Release the spicy honey aroma, 

Drops of fluid gold 

Evaporate — drifting whiffs

Merge with the breeze 

Into the bluedeer’s sky.