It was a perfect spring afternoon in Houston, upper 70s, low humidity, and an ever so slight breeze. Baby Lucas was napping and my niece and I were enjoying the day, each other's company, and the hummingbirds slurping and flirting at the feeder.
There were many females at the feeder, but only a few males, including one who was a little bit disheveled, perhaps a little long in the beak. Occasionally, a very large male hummer would swoop in, chasing away the other males to keep the nectar, female and liquid, all to himself. It seemed that all the boys deferred to the large chap, with the exception of the older guy, Laz.
I noticed old Laz didn't mind Biggie H when he demanded they leave his honey hole. In fact, Laz preferred the comfort of one spot on the feeder. Second by second, minute by minute, he sipped and sipped, and licked of the nectar. So content he was supping that he hadn't moved in about five minutes. Wait, five minutes? That's just not right. Hummingbirds don't stay in one spot eating for five minutes. Old Laz had apparently croaked. There he was, immobile, perched there with snout firmly inserted into the yellow plastic feeding flower, not a feather quivering.
If birds are capable of having a look of contentment, satisfaction, even satiation, on their faces, old Laz had it. I think it probably was the equivalent of an old man dying just seconds after orgasm after having sex with the most desirable partner of his dreams.
I reached toward him, placed my thumb and forefinger on either side of his tiny, beautiful body, and gently lifted him away from his sugary death tube, but I felt the tiniest bit of resistance from his beak area. Just then, his little body shook, his wings extended to their full four inches, and he hummed happily away.
Old Lazarus wasn't dead, he had just been stuck.
Next week, I'll walk on water.
