The Death of a Yellow Warbler
June 4, 2012
“All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity.”
— William Shakespeare
This yellow warbler flew into the glass windows on the library’s patio deck, and it died. One of my colleagues brought it inside, hoping that it was just stunned and would revive. But it was truly dead.
All sudden death is shocking.
I happened to be reading a book by a licensed bird rehabilitator — The Bluebird Effect: Uncommon Bonds with Common Birds by Julie Zickefoose. The book is filled with stories about encounters with birds that came into Zick’s life and home during their convalescences. She remarked on the special difficulty of working with songbirds that need feeding frequently — nestlings need to be fed every 20 to 45 minutes, from dawn to dusk! Had the warbler survived, but with broken bones, it would have required some labor-intensive care.
Hummingbird in the Crocosmia
July 20, 2011
Hummers
by Sharon Lovejoy, from Roots, Shoots, Buckets, and Boots
A hummingbird flew past today,
circled my garden and decided to stay.
Its tiny wings made a funny sound,
like zippers going up and down.
It dipped and dived among the plants,
and snacked on spiders, gnats, and ants.
And all day long, for flying power,
it sipped the nectar tucked in flowers.
What a treat to see a hummingbird feeding in the crocosmia!
A Hummingbird by Any Other Name
February 23, 2011
I was enjoying the beauty of the first tree blossoms against a blue sky when I noticed a tiny hummingbird flitting from flower to flower. I love how poets describe hummingbirds:
- “Thou insect bird! Thou plumed bee!” — Royall Tyler, “Ode to the Hummingbird”
- “Enchanted thing,” “Darling sprite” — Jess Campbell Rae, “Hummingbird”
- “Bright whirligig” — Cyrus Curtis III Cassells, “The Hummingbird”
- “A flash of harmless lightening, A mist of rainbow dyes,” — John Banister Tabb, “The Hummingbird”
- “A pure vibration” — Arnold Craig, “You Are the Hummingbird That Comes”
The Humming-bird
by Emily Dickinson
A route of evanescence
With a revolving wheel;
A resonance of emerald,
A rush of cochineal;
And every blossom on the bush
Adjusts its tumbled head, —
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy morning’s ride.
Wings Pressed in Prayer
August 7, 2010
After reading the following poem by Ted Kooser, I cannot see folded butterfly wings without thinking of praying hands:
Praying Hands
by Ted Kooser
There is at least one pair
In every thrift shop in America,
Molded in plastic or plaster of paris
And glued to a plaque,
or printed in church pamphlet colors
and framed under glass.
Today I saw a pair made out of
lightweight wire stretched over a pattern
of finishing nails.
This is the way faith goes
from door to door,
cast out of one and welcomed at another.
A butterfly presses its wings like that
as it rests between flowers.