A Hummingbird Tale
“What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make.” ~Jane Goodall
It was early autumn, when the nights grow chill enough to make it worth dropping the crank-up sidewalls on the high tunnel at the north end of our ample CSA garden. The light was slanting low to the west, peeking through the red pines that stand guard beside the farmhouse. I had on my chore gear after a long day of working on the homestead, and I trudged up the hill to the high tunnel to dutifully perform this evening task before calling it a day.
Fortunately, I looked up.
There was no reason I had to. I could have easily kept my head down to the task, gotten the job done, and headed for the barn. But I didn’t. I looked up. I’ve learned to listen to that little voice inside, nudging you.
The high tunnel is big enough to walk in, 12 feet wide and 50 feet long. At the time, there was only a door on the west end, and the plastic sides were now dropped. Fortunately, the late-season tomatoes were already growing skeletal, so I could see all the way to the far end. There was a little female Ruby Throated Hummingbird, frantically bouncing off the inside of the plastic film.
Hummingbirds need frequent refueling, or they can simply run out of energy, and this one already looked exhausted. Who knows how long she had been stuck inside the high tunnel, unable to understand why she could not fly beyond something she could see through! And the only door was 50 feet away from her, on the far end of this tunnel.
I pulled off my gloves, stuffed them into my pocket, and threaded my way through the tangle of tomato vines twisted onto baling twine trellis strings, keeping my eye on the terrified bird. No surprise, her terror grew as I approached.
“It’s alright, little one. I’m here to help.” I reached up, but she evaded my grasp, flitting away and boinking on the plastic again. “It’s alright. I promise not to hurt you.”
Nope, she would not hold still, her little wings whirring.
“I can help, but only if you trust me.” I kept my voice low and calm, just as I used to do when working my honeybee hives, explaining the reason for my visit and why they should not be alarmed. “Will you let me help you?”
She hovered in place, eyeing me, but she did not dart away.
Carefully, cupping my hands, I reached up and created a spread-fingered cage to hold her. My fingers were plenty far apart for her to scoot away at any moment. The little bird grasped onto my pinky with her tiny talons, holding out her wings as if to say, “No closer than this, please!”
Carefully, I threaded my way back to the door at the far end of the high tunnel, keeping my hand cage as still as possible. When I stepped beyond the door, I opened up my hands. “There you go. Be free.”
For a few exhilarating seconds, the wee bird stayed on my finger, surveying the world, then sped off with a flitting zoom. The wild ones almost never look back once released, but I like to think she came back the next spring to raise her new brood of little ones on our farm, knowing she lived in the company of kind beings who care.
This happened a few years ago, but when a scene arrived in a dream where a boy frees a fox caught in a snare, helping to calm the creature’s fears with the exact same words I had used, I smiled, knowing this was the hummingbird come back for a story.
