A hummingbird lives in my piano.
It dives at minor notes
in sequences of Prelude
as I try to sleep
and sips at the vibrations
that rattle the strings.
It flutters as I try to read, but
notes become sporadic
broken sharps and flats
the fluttering grows cold. And still.
If I open the lid, I will find it
hollow eyes and delicate feet
so I leave it closed and pretend
I still have a bird. I put sugar water
in a leaky jar
and leave it on the piano bench.
It saturates the cushion I sit on
and soaks my thighs
then the floor.
I whisper its name
and place artemisia above its quiet;
the herb hardens and crumbles
against the black surface
I watch the decomposition
can smell the dryness turn to bitter,
I still have a bird.
Nevada Alde is a fifth-year Writing student at the University of Victoria, an editorial intern for The Malahat Review, and the Treasurer and Organizer for the UVic Photography Excursion Club. Her work in writing focuses mainly on creative nonfiction and fiction with the occasional dash of poetry. She is inspired by the raw honesty of the human condition and her surrounding landscapes. One of her fiction pieces recently won a contest and will appear in the Two Sisters Publishing 2022 Anthology.”