lessons from a hummingbird

I do not run a bird house.

When I lived in Villa Obregón, my garden was filled with a wide range of birds -- plus the occasional crocodile. But not here at the house with no name.

English sparrows (which are neither sparrows nor English) pay infrequent visits to my trellises. Apparently, the vines have everything a weaver finch would want in a sex motel.

The only regular visitors, until recently, have been hummingbirds. Or a hummingbird. I don't know if it is one or more because no more than one is ever in the patio at the same time. Flitting from flower to flower to drink the nectar that powers their flighty wings.

After I trimmed the cup of gold vines on Wednesday, I sat down to write shave and a haircut -- no tip. Just as I started typing, my hummingbird (because I like to think it is only one, and I sit in the only garden it visits) showed up and started darting from trellis to trellis to enjoy the flowers I had not stuffed into the equivalent of a plant body bag.

I will confess that whenever it visits, I stop doing what I am doing and watch its OCD behavior. My presence does not seem to bother it. In its eyes, I am potentially dangerous, but sloth slow. And when it is on wing, it is invincible. Just like any other fighter pilot.

But this was not a usual day. After getting its fill of nectar, it flew to a perch on the vine in the northwestern corner of the patio -- and did just that. Perched.

In my Villa Obregón garden, my favorite spot was the hammock strung between the trunks of a mango and a tamarind. Every evening, a male hummingbird would station himself on the end of a dried branch, flash his head back and forth, and begin that Morse code chatter that makes hummingbird song distinctive. I always imagined the message had the same theme: "Get near my territory and I will poke your eyes out with my beak."

But this current hummingbird had a completely different call. It almost sounded as if it were calling to someone or something. The odd thing was that it kept looking inside the vine as it called. Like a frustrated mobile phone customer trying to catch somebody's attention. "Are you there? Can you hear me? Can you hear me now?"

I have long wondered if law school admits students who have no consciences or if the conscience is slowly extracted during the three years of learning "to think like a lawyer." I have always thought the former applied to me.

But, as I sat at the table, I felt a small stirring of ennui. Had I somehow managed to disturb or destroy a hummingbird nest while trimming the vines?

All day, the hummingbird would fly off -- and then return. Always on the same perch. Always with the same call.

During one of its absences, I took a look at the vine near the perch. I could see nothing. I have seen hummingbird nests. They often look like something a cat would cough up. Small. Nondescript. But I could see nothing.

And just as I write this, the selfsame hummingbird has returned. Drinking first and now sitting on its perch. Plaintively calling for -- something.

Considering the tone of my essays recently, I consider the hummingbird a kindred spirit. Thirsty. Searching for something. Often calling into the void.

Maybe we are just sharing this pleasant day together. If that is the answer, it is sufficient for me.