My intense love for bird watching has been reinvigorated these past few years after I installed a couple new feeders, a few of which were generous gifts from my parents. I've also made the habit of setting aside an hour or two each day to read outside. Making my way through Tolkien's large catalogue of literature while under the canopy of nature has quickly become one of the most therapeutic, replenishing hobbies of mine, and I blame it for my writing being rather flowery and impersonal these past few posts.
Churro is one of many named hummingbird companions that have graced my window feeder along with Merry, Pepper, Rubin and Pinto. Sam and I have tied their names to specific features rather than any individual bird. There are perhaps hundreds of Churros and Merrys that I am unaware of circling about my apartment. "Churro" is the standard male Anna's Hummingbird and "Merry" the standard female. "Pepper" is any scruffy juvenile still developing their colors or any adult in the process of shedding. "Rubin" is the most arbitrary category and saved from males with particularly rich coats. "Pinto" is more of an inside joke about a particular hummingbird I photographed years ago.
Propped in my wooden cushioned chair, I sit and read under the quiet gaze of the late winter sun and feel the bitter lap of the season's chill wind. Hidden in young trees are feeders of sunflower, thistle, and suet, and I am blessed with the visit of delicate creatures of flight, who sit perched on petite silver handles, sifting through seed, munching at their hourly meal. I dress warmly, save for my feet, which lounge bare and freezing on the stone pavement. At first, all but the bravest birds scatter, crying out warnings of danger to their companions roaming nearby as I lumber into my chair.
Smallest of these friends is the Anna's Hummingbird, who, being swift beyond any other creature dares first to return to its feeder. Against the glass window is set its basin of sweet liquid nectar, of which it eagerly replenishes from the earliest hours of dawn when the night sky is only just rescinding until the waning hours of dusk, when all but the palest of the sun's hue remains uncovered by the dark veil of twilight. In this way, it is always the first and last messenger, and I have watched it more closely than any other bird in my backyard.
A fiery dart is the hummingbird, and a great power is contained in its small frame so that it is a thin sewing needle piercing the sky. Its speed and size are such that it is nearly transparent in flight, but it is betrayed in movement by its purring hum and its inquisitive clicking as it surveys its environment. I often see one sitting perched in a branch nearby, defiantly churtling in a thin hiss of warning.
The Anna's plumage is earthly and unassuming; a dull grey on its belly and beautiful, gleaming green that rests on its back, fluctuating between a dark emerald and mossy yellow. Its talons are hidden in tiny tufts of downy feathers at its base, revealing themselves only when perched. In dim light, its face is peppered with a black-brown charcoal. But turning its attention slightly, its iridescent feathers can catch the sun and reflect a cascade of striking ruby reds, cherry pinks, and hints of violet decorating its throat as bright jewels, lapping its cheeks and capping its head. As it swivels its thin rapier beak, one might even witness yellow citrine and hues of peridot outlining the edges of its raiment.
The quiet pastel beauty of the female Anna's is not to be overshadowed by her lavish male partner. Her silken coat is a soft muted grey diluted with browns and greens. She shares the iridescent emerald wings of her spouse, but her throat is speckled with charcoal dots that only hint at the colorful jewels of her inheritance. Her appearance is temperate and her colors clean and refined, more confident and secure than the boisterous mates that come to court her.
Both male and female visit my feeder at almost every hour of the day, boldly and with little regard to me. Sometimes, they sit quietly, neither drinking nor making noise as if lost in a tangential thought. Always, they are aware of my presence, recoiling a bit in hesitation as I approach the window, but almost never fleeing. Even outside, walking past on my way to work, they hover in front of me as if to say, "Excuse me, you're blocking my supper." The bravest may even approach me as I sit and read, examining my brightly colored socks, darting inches from my face in intimidation. I have outstretched my hand to let them drink from my palm, feeling the wind move sharply in the rapid beating of their intimate wings. They pause for a moment after drinking as if to thank me, and in a moment, they disappear into the bramble and the sky.
