Yesterday, he had asked me if I had seen any hummingbirds yet. Neither of us had seen a single one this season.
This morning, as I sat on the deck engrossed in my book, a hummingbird flew up beside my chair. She seemed to hang, like the deep hum of her wings, suspended in air. I put down my book and went inside to grab my camera and refill my coffee mug. I returned to my chair outside and focused my camera on the nearest plastic flower of the bright red feeder, the flower from which she was feeding as I left to get my camera.
I sat and waited, eagerly resting the camera on my chest. I desperately wanted a sip of steaming coffee from my slightly out-of-reach coffee mug, but I didn't move. I grew impatient and thought about giving up, returning to the drowsy ease of sipping coffee and turning pages. Instead I did yogic breathing exercises and searched for an elusive bit of patience. I breathed in calm and breathed out anxiety until the tiny bird returned, alighting on the wrong plastic flower - the one behind the feeder's support. Excited and disappointed, I discreetly lifted the camera from my chest and snapped a few photos of the tiny bird hidden behind the metal pole of the big plastic feeder.
After only a few seconds, the hummingbird was satiated by the feeder's sweet sugared water, more plentiful then a real flower's nectar. And, I was pleased with my brief stint as a patient and still nature photographer. Satisfied, the hummingbird darted away from the feeder, and I gratefully laid my camera aside and returned to my book and cooled coffee.