[note from the present: I wonder if I can entice some hummingbirds to my new place]
Somehow the hummingbirds have become her minor deities. The feeders had arrived in the usual smiling box just days before, and she’d unscrewed the glass globes, canted in the boiled sugar water, and hung the copper-leaf-wreathed balloon-shaped dispensers from the roof of the deck, maybe six feet apart. The tiny marvels that had buzzed the space for weeks, seeking food, rewarded her effort now by zooming in throughout the day, dipping their tiny beak-straws into the red painted metal flowers channeling their nectar. The blown-glass bodies, the whirring dives under the sun umbrella, the startling there-then-not, dart-and-hover of the outrageously exquisite creatures give her a transcendence – in Leonard Cohen’s phrase, for something like a second – that she now regards as her essential nostrum.
Out of it. They take me out of it, praise and bless their bird-brained little wondrousness. Maybe I can build a tiny crystal cathedral to their everlasting glory.