Smash! Thud! The door to my cabin flies open, crashes into the wall and startles me.
“Pat! Pat!” my girfriend Hannah’s out of breath voice calls out. “What?” “There’s a hummingbird in the garage, I think it’s asking for help!”
“What do you mean?” “I don’t know, it just flew in and looks messed up. It has cobwebs on it!” I jump up from my desk and race out the door, pausing only to slip on my sandals.
Hummingbirds have voracious metabolisms and they are in critical danger when unable to regualrly eat.
Within seconds I make it to the garage and find a small, female Anna’s Hummingbird sitting in a pile of the ground. Her normally regal green jacket looks tattered and her breathing is much too fast – her entire body heaves and quivers with each inhalation. I drop to one knee and begin trying to coax her over.
“Hannah, grab a spoon and some sugar water from one of the feeders.” While Hannah sprints off to gather food, I gently extend my hand toward the hummer; I close my eyes, take a deep breath and focus on exuding safety and welcome. I fail. She flits up to the gutter on our wellhouse, but is still within reach.
“You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re okay.” She cocks her head in acknowledgment and doesn’t try to move.
Shoot! I can feel myself beginning to panic, not wanting to burn through the last of her energy reserves. If I am unsuccessful at communicating to her, she will likely die.
Again, I take a deep breath and murmur, “you’re okay, you’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” By now, Hannah has returned with the sugar water and spoon and hands it to me. I slowly raise the spoon toward this beatifully fierce, fluffy ping-pong ball.
Take a sip. Come on, you can do it. Have some sugar water.” She looks at the spoon…I feel the presence of success. I fail. She leaps from the gutter and my stomach falls through the earth.
“Don’t move.” Hannah whispers. I shoot her a questioning glance. “She’s sitting on the brim of your hat looking at the spoon.” Reminding myself to use wide-angle vision, I see her quivering body perched at the end of my cap. I begin to slowly raise the spoon. She turns and looks and takes a small sip of nectar. Relief floods every inch of my being; she has bought herself some time. My relief is short lived though, she seems to be struggling to drink from the flat spoon.
“Grab a feeder.” Hannah sprints off again and returns moments later with the hummingbird feeder from atop the hill.
“How should I give it to you?” “Fox walk.” Hannah creeps over to us and hands me the bright red feeder. I feel the Anna tense up. “You’re okay, you’re okay, this is for you,” I murmur in response. Gently, I raise the feeder parallel to her and she hops over to it, quickly spearing an imitation flower and gulping down its nectar.
Slowly, I lower the feeder to eye level and carefully observe her movements. She is gorgeous. Her green coat dances with the sunlight and her ruby throat-patch quivers with nectarine delight. The back of her neck is tattered and bloody. It appears she has been grabbed by something. (likely a hyper-territorial male Anna’s)
She drinks for minutes; it is clear she has been without food for some time. Eventually, she turns a wary eye toward me, we gaze at each other in disbelief. I smile. She turns back to her flower and takes several more drinks.
You’re a beauty,” I coo at her. After several more drinks, she flies to the top of our outdoor shower and rests upon the bamboo roof. I continue to watch her. She is still breathing laboriously and I am concerned about the vulnerability of her position.
Eventually, she flies to the hummingbird feeder in our garden and takes several more drinks before flying out of sight. Hannah and I take comfort in her recovery, though we know she is not out of the woods yet.
A week later, I wander up our driveway to check if the upper feeder needs more food. I am lost in thought, when a female Anna’s hummingbird zips in front of my face, pauses, dances back in forth – a hummingbird’s recognition and greeting – and flies off chittering. The back of her neck is ruffled and bald, but no longer an open gash. I smile. “You’re welcome, Anna.”
