‘Tis a day of hummers and chirpers

 After suffering through a “spring” that was more like a weak winter, and taking down the sunflower seed feeders due to avian flu, we’ve finally got some weather to enjoy and, a pleasant surprise! We’ve put up hummingbird/oriole feeders because rarely is there more than one bird at a time at those feeders. During the past few days, a couple of downy woodpeckers have been feeding at the oriole feeder. Today, midday, a female ruby-throated hummingbird arrived at the small, red, window-mounted feeder in front of the house. It’s the earliest I remember seeing a hummer at our place.

mid-May: female ruby-throated hummingbird

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, inside the house, the upstairs, hard-wired smoke detector is doing a five chirp sequence every ninety forty-five seconds or so to let us know it’s expired. The “quick-connect” plug’s disconnect tab isn’t functioning so I can’t just disconnect the damn thing and, as far as I can tell, it’s on the master circuit so I don’t want to just trip a circuit breaker. Fortunately, I can’t lay hands on either the idiot at First Alert who decided a repeating chirp sequence instead of a flashing light was the way to inform a homeowner who couldn’t readily disconnect the unit nor the idiot who laid out the wiring circuits for our house. Having to turnoff the main circuit breaker to replace a smoke detector isn’t the brighest design decision I’ve ever encountered.

I can’t simply get away from the annoying chirps by doing outside work because there’s an outside chance our electrician, scheduled to come tomorrow, might get an opening today and come early. If I’m outside and missed that text, you can be sure that’s the opportunity I’d miss a chance to confirm. Later today I’ll spend time outside when the Better Half is home and can baby sit my cell phone while I’m away from the damn chirps. Maybe now that the weather’s warmer, I can listen for frog choruses tonight.

Hummingbird

By Mark Roper

Not just how
it hung so still
in the quick of its wings,
all gem and temper
anchored in air;

not just the way
it moved from shelf
to shelf of air,
up down, here there,
without moving;

not just how it flicked
its tongue's thread
through each butter-yellow
foxglove flower
for its fix of sugar;

not just the vest's
electric emerald,
the scarf's scarlet,
not just the fury
of its berry-sized heart,

but also how the bird
would soon be found
in a tree nearby,
quiet as moss at the end
of a bare branch,

wings closed around
its sweetening being,
and then how light
might touch its throat
and make it glow,

as if it were the tip
of a cigarette
smouldering
on the lip of a world,
whose face,

in the lake's hush
and the stir of leaves,
might appear
for a moment
composed.

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