My deal with a hummer

 

This little ball of fluff has been sitting in a bush by my back steps for two days. Photo by John Denniston

I’ve heard about people developing relationships with wild critters before – crows that welcome them home, squirrels that eat out of their hands, blue jays that arrive promptly at 9 a.m. for peanuts. Now, thanks to the cold weather, I seem to have acquired my own connection to the wild.

John first spotted my new friend yesterday: “What’s that kind of turquoisey bird out there?” he asked, pointing to a bump on the lilac bush by the back porch.  It was a hummingbird, hunched into a fluffy ball, head withdrawn, barely moving. I thought it was sick, maybe dying, as it sat there through the cold afternoon. But every so often, it flew to the hummingbird feeder a couple of yards away, drank heartily, then returned to its perch.

It vanished that night, but this morning it was back in the same spot. By then, I had two feeders going to ensure there was always a thawed one to replace a frozen one. I did some research and discovered that in very cold weather, hummingbirds go into a state of torpor – much like they do at night – where their metabolism slows to preserve their energy. They fluff their feathers, withdraw their heads and don’t move much.

So my bird sat on, livening up for a few flights when the temperature rose, and making periodic trips to the always-ready feeder. Just like the people who have developed an understanding with their crows, squirrels or blue jays, I now have a deal with my hummingbird. I feed him and he doesn’t die.

A few yards away from the bird's perch is a feeder of nectar, changed out when it freezes. Besides eating there, he seems to keep an eye on it, occasionally fighting off sparrows that land to drink water out of the central moat. 

Beside the back porch railing is the lilac bush where the hummingbird seems to have made a temporary home.