A hummingbird
fought against itself, fluttering about near the ceiling of our garage. A small
area where plaster has fallen looked like a window as she moved about in a
panic, exhausting herself, trying to escape. The garage door was wide open.
Light flowing in
through two windows may have confused her, as well as the light brown patch
that seemed to draw her attention as much as anything else. Her tunnel vision
was to hug the ceiling. Seemed safer up there where the unknown couldn’t slink
along, catching her by surprise. It’s a common reaction for people. But birds,
if they survive, have built-in instinct to protect. Like the inner voice we
often ignore, or over time lose the ability to distinguish between its good or
a voice of evil.
She kept flying
above the opening and resting on the chain drive for the garage opener. This
took away the option of lowering the door and raising it back because that was
her place to rest and regroup. After a time of watching the same pattern
repeated I grabbed a broom and tried to gently direct her in the path of
safety, but she resisted, and finally landed on a window sill, about six feet
off the floor, completely exhausted and with no more fight left.
I haven’t
photographed a single hummingbird this year, but I had an opportunity to touch
this one, as her exhausted body didn’t resist. I gently picked her up and
walked outside through the open garage door. Looking around for the part-time
feral cat that sometimes uses our yard as a hunting ground, I found an old bird
bath with a top over it that seemed safe, and put her down carefully. I stroked
her green body with one finger and then backed off as she summoned all her
strength and flew upward long enough to reach a tree branch that was close to
the height of our garage ceiling.
Hopefully she
survived the ordeal. I checked later and her perch was empty, with no trace
down below of the beautiful creature. I’m hoping she just needed a helping hand
and a little direction. I’ll write the final chapter that way.
