The morning’s flowers were delicious, of course. They were tiny and intense and the colors of jewels. The hummingbird flitted among them, tasting their deep blues. They were probably highly nutritious, he thought. But he wanted something more.
He was far too courteous to complain, and he certainly didn’t mean to be ungrateful. But privately he had to admit that he had a hankering for something more, for something that tasted like sunrise.
The more he tried to define it for himself, the more his craving grew. It would be light, he thought, letting his imagination play. And sweet pastel hues would radiate up from its rose and gold center. It would be broad and deep, simple and smooth, and the morning’s rain would cling to its petals. And its pollen would be so plentiful and rich that he could linger in the blossom’s center until he had taken his fill.
He laughed at himself when he realized he had been so enraptured by his daydream that he hadn’t tasted a thing for the last ten or so minutes. He gave thanks for the delightful dream and turned his attention back to the present, glad for all that was there.
Then, just as he was about to leave for the meadow a few acres to the east, he spotted it: the flower of his dreams, exactly as he had imagined her, only even more beautiful somehow.
It was true, he thought. What they told him about imagining the object of your desire with fervor and clarity was true.
He darted over to the pastel blossom, fairly quivering with anticipation as he flew. Even from a few feet away, he could detect her sweet, fresh fragrance. It was light and pure and he almost felt intoxicated breathing it in.
At last he reached her center. It was a golden and glowing as the sun. And when he took in her nectar, it tasted exactly like sunrise.