Monday’s Portrait: Portrait of Hummingbirds

Bear Lake

Earlier this summer we took a family trip to Bear Lake.  One evening, sitting on the deck of our cabin, a blur of beating wings interrupted our view of the blue water.  I heard it before I saw it – the buzz that tore a hole in the air, slicing it open as neatly and swiftly as a seam ripper.   The loud chirrup.  And then the tiny flash of  beak and feathers.  There was a pause of conversation, of thoughts and of words, as we briefly pondered the world of the hummingbird. 

Tonight I thought of the hummingbird again, as I read this poem by Mary Oliver:

Hummingbirds

The female, and two chicks,

each no bigger than my thumb,

scattered,

shimmering

in their pale-green dresses;

then they rose, tiny fireworks,

into the leaves

and hovered;

then they sat down,

each one with dainty, charcoal feet -

each one on a slender branch -

and looked at me.

I had meant no harm,

I had simply

climbed the tree

for something to do

on a summer day,

not knowing they were there,

ready to burst the ledges

of their mossy nest

and to fly, for the first time,

in their sea-green helmets,

with brisk, metallic tails -

each tulled wing,

with every dollop of flight,

drawing a perfect wheel

across the air.

Then, with a series of jerks,

they paused in front of me

and, dark-eyed, stared -

as though I were a flower -

and then,

like three tosses of silvery water,

they were gone.

Alone,

in the crown of the tree,

I went to China,

I went to Prague;

I died, and was born in the spring;

I found you, and loved you, again.

Later the darkness fell

and the solid moon

like a white pond rose.

But I wasn’t in any hurry.

Likely I visted all

the shimmering, heart-stabbing

questions without answers

before I climbed down.

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