Watering the bare patches of lawn, dug up by dogs or withered by neglect, a hummingbird drops by.
If only I were a poet, I could describe the feeling, the sense.
Old, busted nozzle, constantly turned to ON, barely useful years ago. Spraying water every which way, some even onto the intended grass.
The main arc — the most relevant stream — attracts a large flapping bug. First glances deceive; it’s a feisty Rufous bird, if my color vision isn’t fooling me like always.
Oh if only.
Several sorties, in and out, back and fro. He She It even comes to inspect me. The water stream, though, is far more interesting than a middle aged suburban man on the brink of awareness.
There’s learning to be had, epiphanies to be shocked with. Why a hummingbird? Why me?
“Shut up,” it hums, “I’m just thirsty.”
If only I were a hummingbird.