Those little jerks

 

It’s the end of hummingbird time. With the late sunrise and early dusk, when these beauties leave it almost seems like a personal affront. It’s not even cold yet. But flowers are wrapping up their work and the insects that sustain those little jerks are also disappearing. There’s been no activity at the feeders for at least two days. Other birds, especially sparrows and finches, are amping up their activity. Off the deck we have two lilacs where all the birds huddle and hide, flit and fly, sing and sun. Sometimes its as though the bushes themselves want to take off so many birds are in there.

The sunflowers still have seeds. Yesterday and today there has been much feasting happening out my office window. I get distracted, I’ve been working on a short story and some poems and it seems that every few minutes something requires attention:

Here’s an old poem that highlights hummingbirds. Be safe.

Theory of lightning

The bedside light lit itself, our first indication of storm.
Then a swarm of hummingbirds shadowed the screen,
flares of lacquer gleamed as lightning collided with night.
Masses of wing, red throats and green, ghostly
in the darkness, shimmering even as darkness returned.

So much commotion, that we opened the window
listened to their charges and feints, the high squeak
of defeat as they left the feeders, which flamed redder
with each flash and with each arc more
and more birds arrived. Their gathering
made our earlier disagreement shatter.
This surprise of so many hungry bodies
flooded senses, lifted the anger.

Just as swiftly the tempest broke.
Hail and wind forced the melee
to the ground, where like a magic trick
gone wrong they scattered, gone by the next burst.

I leaned back from the squall, closed
the window, your arms enclosed me,
our bodies became the cage
for those hundred, diminutive hearts.