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.
Comments are closed.
Privacy Settings
We use cookies to enhance your experience while using our website. If you are using our Services via a browser you can restrict, block or remove cookies through your web browser settings. We also use content and scripts from third parties that may use tracking technologies. You can selectively provide your consent below to allow such third party embeds. For complete information about the cookies we use, data we collect and how we process them, please check our Privacy Policy