In the summer, if you’re quiet, observant, and live in the right place, you’ll see a hummingbird.
My mother-in-law has them in abundance off her back deck.
Most people sitting where I am notice the deer—plenty of fawns, yearlings, and does, and, on the occasional misty sunrise, two beautiful trophy bucks that would make hunters whistle with envy.
But I like the smaller game.
A hummingbird is the size of a comma and makes about the same amount of sound. It’s more like a pause in the summer than a statement.
That’s not quite true.
As they quickly turn and dart around the feeder, their wings make a thrumming sound that only poets can describe. Since my talents don’t lie that way, I won’t even make the attempt.
I also won’t try to capture them on camera.
The result would either be disappointing or dismissed as AI.
To live the full and complete summer, one of the boxes on your bingo card should simply read:
“Hummingbird.”
Have you seen one yet?
