Posted: March 30, 2013 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , ,

I love hummingbirds. They are such improbable little upstarts. Colorful, quick and fearless with the ability to hover like none other. And that’s as close to a poem as I’m likely to get. Here’s one I photographed at sunrise this morning. You can tell I gussied it up a bit because of the low light situation and my almost non-existent zoom.

Hummer at rest.

Hummer at rest.

I have looked back in my archives to put together a spontaneous tribute to one of my favorite birds.
One of the feeders back at the mobile mansion.

One of the feeders back at the mobile mansion.

I drew this rufous hummer during one of their short annual visits.

I drew this rufous hummer during one of their short annual visits.

Back in 2010 I fancied myself a writer of conspiracy fiction. In the passage included below I predicted Jules Verne-like a sinister humbot Illuminati construct that later became a reality as shown in the following newspaper article I found a year or so later.

Illuminati Humbot

Illuminati Humbot

Like most of the other residents of his small resort community, the “Writer” welcomed the glorious weather which arrived just in time for the season’s first onslaught of tourists, Memorial Day Weekend. Even the endless flow of traffic headed for the coast in legions of motor cycles, armadas of RVs, and chattering herds of fluorescent-clad cyclists, did little to curb the enthusiasm delivered by a succession of cloudless, sun-drenched days.
The holiday weekend was a time for family, festivals and fun. It brought a welcome diversion from last week’s troubling confrontations with the Illuminati’s “Mentor” constructs, hallucinations galore, and the inevitable questioning of his sanity. It was easy to forget the pressures of apprentice superheroism too, when he was enveloped in the warm glow of happy people, good music, barbecue and adult beverages, all set against a backdrop of ravishing Spring finery, Sonoma County style.

But today is the day after. Lucy is back on the job. The “Writer” is back on the porch in front of the mobile mansion, honing his skills and warming his outrageously flat feet in the sun. Gojira gazes for a moment in the direction of the cheerful cries of children emanating from the schoolyard, then settles down like a lifeless Rod Stewart toupee at the “Writer’s” feet. The drone and crunch of a wood-chipper a block or so away, the swish of passing vehicles, the hum of the hot tub provide a hypnotic audio mix.

The “Writer” can also discriminate the calls of the usual avian suspects: the caw of a big black crow in the apple tree, the angry squawk of a cat food thieving jay, the agitated peeps of a mother woodpecker from her hole nest in the power pole, the metallic zzzzttt-zzzzzttt of the Ana’s hummer commenting on the quality of the mixture of sugar and water in the feeder.

The “Writer” turns to watch the hummer who is cycling through the four feeding stations in a strange frenzied manner, never pausing for more than a sip or two before moving to another of the four plastic yellow “flowers”, around and around the perimeter of the feeder.

At first the “Writer” thought that the bird’s erratic movements might be provoked by the presence of ants or yellow jackets on the feeder. This atypical behavior persisted even as the “Writer” slowly approached for a closer look. As he advanced , a familiar tingle, crept up his spine. He was about to have another freaking far from natural experience. There were disturbing details in the aspect of this particular Ana’s that were setting his nerves ajar and his mouth agape.

He noticed that the buzzing from the bird’s rapid wing movements was much louder than normal. It’s blazing scarlet head and neck shone with a sharp metallic glare that was painful to the eye. And then it noticed him.

Suddenly this picture of a perfect Spring day was dashed against the bricks of the patio and shattered into shards of nightmare. In a few fleeting moments the hummingbird had darted directly into the face of the “Writer”, causing him to stagger backwards, trip over his chair, and topple awkwardly onto the porch. He had only partly succeeded in slowing his fall, grasping the chair vainly for support before crunching heavily onto the carpet-covered deck , stunned. Before he could do more than prop himself up on his skinned elbows, the diminutive hell-diver resumed his attack. Just as the needle-beaked freak zoomed toward the victim’s reddened proboscis a grey blur flew from the shadows under the RV to intercept the micro-monster mid-air and slam it beneath its curved-clawed paws into the dirt with a curious and quite final crunch. The “Cat With No Name” had saved the “Writer” from a nasal encounter of the worst kind.

The shaken senior could feel the furry feline rubbing against his feet, but for a long moment he lingered on the deck, quite still, doing a detailed parts inventory. Other than the skinned elbows, he felt no obvious ill effects from his fall. As he slowly pulled himself up to his feet he was able to see what remained of his attacker gleaming in the sunlight where its fractured beak, twisted wings and exposed circuitry presented him with fresh problems and questions he really didn’t feel up to dealing with. Especially on such a beautiful Spring day as this one.

That was then, this is now!

hummernews (1)

Not So Still Life With Hummer, Bird Feeder, Novelty Plastic Skull, Roses and A Carnivorous Plant

Not So Still Life With Hummer, Bird Feeder, Novelty Plastic Skull, Roses and A Carnivorous Plant

  1. Teri says:

    I forgot how much I miss the “Writer”! I wish he would reappear….

    “like a lifeless Rod Stewart toupee”…priceless and perfect!

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