we prep and we wait. two of our friends wait as well – all of us ready to text as soon as we see one. it’s a vigil for the tiny hummingbird.

this year we were the first. the hummingbird surprised us as we adirondack-chair-sat outside. it was morning and the sun was brilliant. we were quiet as the day began to warm up. and then, suddenly, it was there.

there is something infinitely touching about that first tiny hummer. something that gives you pause.

we love our birds – all of them. we consider our birdbath one of our finest outdoor purchases. watching a black-capped chickadee or a house sparrow perch on its side and dip its head to drink, or a robin fully immersed, splashing around…it is joyous to know you have contributed in a tiny way to their precarious lives. it’s much the same with our feeders – it’s all just a reminder that we are in this same big world together.

and then the hummingbird shows up. and, after once, it remembers, just like the news spreads through other birds about the clean water birdbath or the feeders in the backyard.

and then, though invisible, there is a connection.

it was always there.

we transcend that which binds us to the pragmatic, the stuff of our lives. and we sit – watchfully – as we wait for the hummingbird’s return to the feeder. or the chickadee’s entry and exit into the birdhouse. or the cardinals – walter and irma – at the flat-based house feeder. or the sparrows dustbathing where dogga had dug. we just wait.

these are the moments. and the ones before slip away as the ones to come linger in the air. we just sit – untethered to either – our wings resting.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this NOT-SO-FLAWED WEDNESDAY

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