Enter, Hummingbird

(Written Saturday, Sept. 25, 2010, but kept in draft form by mistake)

My back door is open and I'm sitting at my kitchen table, reading, waking up slowly.  The day is bright and clear, the town is bustling, breakfast is half gone.  The coffee is very good.

I hear a rumbling noise, a muffled thrumming sound and my mind takes it in, considers it and compares it to other  sounds coming up from the street.  At first, it's possible I'm hearing a motorcycle engine in the distance, but it sounds too - what? - thrummy, if that's a word.  A weed whacker?  Something is making a steady beating sound.  I'm still reading the newspaper and finally look up.

There in the kitchen is a hummingbird, examining the many magnets and postcards covering the refrigerator, gently weaving back and forth a few inches, up and down an inch.  One magnet is made of pressed flowers laminated between plastic.  Many of the others are red, and the little bird is intrigued by them.  Then he comes a bit further into the kitchen, his wings drumming the air softly.  There is plenty in my kitchen that is red and attractive to a curious bird, I notice, and I hope he does not make the mistake of flying further in.

I've had brief encounters with small creatures within my own "nest" now and again, and they always stir a thrill and excitement in me.  The sense of wildness entering my domain, unbidden and unpredictable, is curious.  A raccoon peeked into one house, a scrub jay flew down a chimney, a coyote visited my vegetable garden.  The wild world, usually shy and barely seen, is out there.  I know it, I see their tracks, hear their songs, but I seldom get to see them up close, especially not arriving in my kitchen on a Saturday morning.

"Hey,  there's a hummingbird in the kitchen!"  I find myself exclaiming, wondering what will happen next.  Suddenly, the small wild thing is telling a story and I am leaning on the edge of my seat to find out about it, hope it will be okay, wonder why it took a wrong turn.

The thrumming beat of the wings intensified when the hummer sped back out the door, and it squeaked its tiny cry to the neighborhood as it flew.  Later it returned very briefly, took quick glance back at the magnets and color, zoomed away.  It was a first, being visited by a speedy little dart made of feathers.  I am half hoping he comes back and feels comfortable with our kitchen, but I don't want him to.  Wildness and self-determination by wild things, their freedom to move amidst our predictably dangerous world, is inspiring and beautiful if not wonderfully whimsical and fun.  I want them to always fly free, wander safely, out of reach of danger, original inhabitants of nature.