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Voices of Spencer Creek
He came to my window again last night, zipping in closer, closer, closer, and closer still, as I reached out my cupped hand to him in acknowledgment and love.
It started like this: I came home after a hot, windy weekend, intent on getting the flowers watered, and getting myself off to work early enough to beat the heat. When I went out to move the sprinkler, I noticed an odd something in the grass. On closer examination, I found it to be a juvenile hummingbird. He was soaking wet, too heavy and cold to fly. He was emitting tiny squeaks of fear and anguish--calling to his parents in the birch tree above.
I reached down gently, getting my fingers under him, and he climbed smartly onto my hand, his tiny, perfect claws finding easy purchase on my warm flesh. His eyes were nearly closed, he was shivering mightily, and his breath and heartbeat were frantic. He weighed nothing at all, even drenched as he was. His feathers were mostly gray/brown, with three or four tiny spots of jewel tones around his neck. His little beak and miniature dinosaur eyes were fascinating!
What to do? Firstly, I was so amazed at actually holding this tiny feathered fellow in my hand, that I wanted to run around and show all my neighbors, to share the joy and astonishment at my great good fortune. But the obvious distress of this child of my long-time friends required a different response.
Seated on the front porch, near the feeder and in familiar territory for the hummer, I sat and held him and awaited developments. The watering, the work waiting, the approaching heat all receded in importance as I focused on this tiny bit of precious life. He was still cold and wet. The morning breeze was ruffling his feathers a little, but then I thought of the wind chill factor, and decided to bring up my other hand to provide more heat and some shelter from the wind. Between two hot palms, with an opening big enough to get out of if he wanted to, that baby bird began to relax.
"R-r-r-ring"--the phone! I went inside, hummingbird and all, and punched the speakerphone button with my elbow. "You'll never guess what I'm holding in my hands!" We talked for a few minutes, then I went on outside to check again on my little friend. He'd been looking a little better each time I opened my hands, and this time his eyes snapped fully open, he looked around, shook out his wings, and p-r-r-r-t--he was up about eight feet to a branch of the birch tree.
That little guy sat there until I left the house most of a hour later, sunning, drying, recovering. When I came home in the afternoon, he was gone, but I spotted him a little later, feeding at the feeder that is available year-round for the Anna's hummingbirds that winter here. I saw him several times yesterday, then last evening, as I was reading, light on, just a few feet from the feeder, he left the feeder and came towards me, closer and closer to the glass and my outstretched hand. Once again, I was amazed and delighted at the honor of helping this tiny jewel of life, of being for a brief time a support to him. Oh, wouldn't it be fun if he came to my hand again--on purpose? We'll see...
Later this morning, when I first ventured out to the front porch, there he was, performing his morning ablutions and chirping away like mad. When he came down to feed, he roosted on the perch, dunked his head, and slurped without ceasing for five to ten seconds at a time, instead of hovering and sipping as usual. He looked at my offered hand, but didn't come. Not yet. Soon? He spent quite a bit of the day warning off a migrating Rufous hummer who was seeking sustenance for his flight south. It looks like he's none the worse for his experience, and I'll enjoy watching his progress through the winter and as long as he stays around.
August 2006
Copyright ©2006 by Edie Self
Ms. Self, an occasional contributor to these pages, grew up on the sunny side of Spencer Butte and is a member of the Spencer Butte Writer's Group. Visit the Joy of Living stories and poems by Edie Self at West By Northwest.org:
Two Spring Shorts from the Spencer Butte Writers Group
Northwest Bloomin' Useless
Curtains in the Wind
One Early Harvest
Wash Day for Robins
The Sunnyside of Spencer Butte: Two Winter Tales and Birding on the Butte
Summer at Grandma's
© Copyright 2000-2004 by West By Northwest.org
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