Little creatures of love

Well, they’re here.
Right now.
The faeries.
I’m using the Old World spelling
because it’s not smudged
by weird sexual coarseness.
And I’m using a poetry format
so as to experience

But they ARE here.
I’ve been spying on them.
Of course they’re real.
Are you thinking they aren’t?
Are you thinking,
“What the heck is he smokin’?”
Well, whatever I’m smokin’,
I bet you’d like some.
But it’s not smoke that lets me
see the faeries.

They’re right there,
in the yard.
Dressed far more nattily
than Tinker Bell, who,
let’s face it,
is a Disney sex object.
These faeries have jewels
around their necks.
Or so it appears.
Shining rich flashing
shockingly iridescent
when glinted
just so
by the evening sun.

Our faeries must be
the world’s finest fliers.
They hover, rise and sink;
whatever they want to do.
Just like you’d expect.
What do they eat?
Flower sex dust and sugar water!
So how about you kick down
and feed the faeries?
Like every creature on this planet,
they love free food.
What’s in it for you?
You get to watch ’em.
They have a long journey ahead,
and they’re sugar-loading.
Canada to Mexico, twice a year.
A serious sojourn for a creature
that weighs
one tenth of an ounce.

Of course, we’ve a New World name
for these mountain desert faeries.
But if you see them
licking the sweet water
in your feeder
while backlit by the morning sun
wings whirring gossamer fury,
you’ll perhaps indulge me,
thinking that our
are at least somewhat