They are ubiquitous in Southern Arizona–hummingbirds. So are the various types of hummingbird feeders that people hang from their patios to attract the birds for a closer look. There is something special about these birds–their tiny size, the whirr of their vibrating wings, the way they can hover in air–makes them, even the most common, those without the ruby or emerald jewels around their necks, irresistible to us.
We decided against hanging a feeder, and we still see one or two hummingbirds daily, would probably see more if all we did was sit outside to watch for them.
About a week ago, I followed one into the branches of an acacia tree that grows outside our wall and found its destination. A nest. To be certain about what I was seeing, I searched “hummingbird nest” and learned they look like un-fired white clay pots, about 2 x 3 inches. They’re sealed with pine resin and look like they’re covered in chewing gum.
Since finding the nest, we’ve been watching for signs of babies. Imagine how small a new-hatched hummingbird is. But seeing nothing we went on with life.
Then, on Easter Sunday, we were sitting out, just taking in the day, and I saw on a branch of the nearest tree to the nest, a little bird. It just sat there for the longest time, moving only when the breeze moved the slim branch. Before long, mom arrived, and she perched right next her her baby and began to feed it with her long beak. Then she flew off again, and her chick remained, waiting. The next meal arrived about ten minutes later. Astonishingly, about all that chick did in her absence was to flutter its wings, almost as if discovering for the first time that he could do such a thing.
Not long after she flew away to gather another meal of mashed bugs and nectar, we noticed a second, identical-looking chick in the acacia, about ten feet from their nest. We didn’t see the mother feed him, although maybe she already had. Or maybe he was still waiting. I know of no human child as patient as these birds.
I’ve not seen them today, so maybe the two chicks are huddled in their nest, safe from the wide world they’re not quite ready to explore. It will be fun to watch them grow, to see their beaks grow long, ready to pierce the sweetest center of any flower. And then, they’ll be gone.
I suppose the connection to the writers life is that we must always be observing life around us. And look now. Had I not been looking up at the cloudless sky, I would never have seen that first chick, or the second, or the family tableau in process. A small story, but one as worthy as any human story ever was.