Two hummingbirds come see me every now and then. My visitors.
One speaks in squeaks in between sucking the nectar out of all my wildflowers. He is small, but fierce. Let no other humming, hovering creature invade his territory- he chases them out, pushing them out of his space with his tiny, fluttering wings. He hovers in front of a flower, drinks, and then dances his way on to the next one. Sick of wildflowers, he’ll fly up to the deck and drink the sugar water graciously left out for him by human hands. Then, after taking a resting break on my fence he’ll eventually, as if drunk with nectar and off to some big event, fly away without ever acknowledging my presence.
The other, the intruder as I like to call him, is quiet, a little bigger, and definitely less drama and theatrics. He sees what he likes and dives for it, unaware that his desires are already accounted for by another humming creature, another fluttering beautiful thing. Yet convinced in his life’s purpose, he flies straight into my wildflowers, knowing damn well he’ll have to pay the price. Soon enough, he is chased out of my garden by one who already staked a claim, one who stood ready to fight for wilderness and sweet nectar and sunsets from my deck.
They play this dance of chase and catch and I sit paralyzed, wishing I could join them to fly and flutter and hum, drink out of wildflowers, and love something so fiercely to be crazy enough to fight for it; crazy not to protect it, not guard it and keep it safe under fragile wings and strength.