I flit.
If I were to peek under one of the toadstools punctuating each bend, roll, and rise of my yards (front, back, and sides), and find a tiny fairy there, ready to shrink me down to size and transform me into a woodland creature of her world, I might want her to wave her wand, say her words, and turn me into a hummingbird: a small, zippy sipper and dipper living her life with zest and gusto. My wings would be green but shimmering with all the good colors like cobalt turquoise and quinacridone magenta, and I’d wear a ruby beneath my beak.
But could I keep up? Would I perish my first day up and away, flapping my wings as frantically as a two-stroke engine given the gas by a thirteen-year-old? While I tend to sip rather than gulp, would I have the wherewithal and stamina to get my beak into every dahlia, bee balm blossom, and petunia that grows along my flightpath?
Like I said, I flit: from book to book, art project to camera, room to room, and from one chore to another: a bed made here, a few dishes washed and stacked in the drainer there, towels taken from the dryer and carried to a bathroom shelf.
Yes, I could do it. Make me a hummingbird and watch me fly.