I'll come in after I've seen her one more time, I told Q as he went inside. It was nearly dark, but the hummingbird was hungry, and kept appearing in the air near the trumpet vine arbor, where the orange trumpets and the feeders hang.
My friend Jenny gave us a new feeder, one on which the hummingbird can perch as she feeds, rather than feeding and hovering at the same time. I just think they must get tired of hovering, she said, and it made sense to me. Ours seems to like both: she visits the perch feeder and takes long sips as she clings, and then buzzes over to the clear glass globes to drink again and again from their red bottoms. Finally finished, she hangs in the air for a moment and then soars over the rooftop and out of sight.
I'd rather watch the hummingbirds than do anything else. Than eat. Than write. Than garden. Than go anywhere. No, thanks. I'll just sit here and watch.
It seems to me that they complete the life of the garden -- the insects, the plants, the other birds, the cats, the bright sun, all seem to me to be leading up to the hummingbird, as if she were the crown of it. The fleet and fragile spirit of the garden, of the whole earth -- look, there she is! Look before she flies away.
Look! It is all going. Look and love its beauty, before it is all gone.
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