Cranky Wings

It’s a hard time of year for Buzzy Boy, our cranky hummingbird. He’s the lord and supreme ruler of the aerial space around our house, and no other hummer - no other hummer – can use his feeders without his permission.

The first year I hung a hummingbird feeder, we were pleased that almost immediately three hummers arrived; then we realized that one was a little bully. He was the smallest, with a handsome red throat, and yet he was, and is, as big as all outdoors - if any other hummer dares approach the feeder, he's after it in a moment.

Buzzy Boy has visited us for several summers, and he’s in constant contact with us. We gave him that name because he makes an unusually loud buzzing noise with his wings - we hear him before we see him. We thought we were being bothered by some strange large bug that would fly at us whenever we came out the kitchen door - then we got a closer look and saw it was this cocky little hummingbird that went straight for our heads, dive-bombing and retreating repeatedly.  After we realized what was attacking us and stopped swatting at him and named him, he let up a little and only dive-bombed us once or twice a day.

Since then I've hung two feeders to give other hummers a chance to catch a snack. This has only made Buzzy-Boy busier, and he's stopped dive-bombing us except when he first arrives in early summer, and whenever I don’t change the sugar water often enough.  The rest of the time, he'll companionably show up and buzz about when I'm watering the plants that live on the wart, or when I'm headed to the screen tent. I greet him by name, and if he's not in hot pursuit of another hummer, he'll sit atop one of the feeders, puff out his manly chest, and give me a brief but lovely song. If I'm slow to notice him, he'll soon be right in my face. He even checks up on me indoors, hovering just outside the kitchen window or library window if I’m working in those places, or hovering and peering into the screen tent when I’m out there reading.

I once held him in my hands. Every summer several birds will fly through the open door on our barn-like structure, and then can't find their way out the open windows.  I capture and release them: after I chase them around the inside walls awhile, they give up and I can get a hand on top and another below.  In that soft embrace they stop struggling and gratefully take off once we're back outside. I've rescued two dozen birds, without problem except for one angry sparrow that kept biting me all the time I was carrying it, and gave me one final hard peck as it stood on my open palm, just before it took off.

One day we realized a hummer was trapped in the building, and I caught it and lost it twice before I figured out I had to hold it in one hand's loose fist, with a finger from the other covering half the opening out of which poked the little bird's head with its very long beak. I didn't realize I had Buzzy Boy until I got him outside: I opened my hand, admiring how very tiny this little being was, and he stood on my palm and glared at me. In a second he was off for the nearest tree, and a moment later, he was dive-bombing my head. Of course.

I plant scarlet runner beans behind the house, and Buzzy Boy can just see the vines and their lovely red flowers from one of his feeders. But he can't easily patrol both beans and feeders. He races back and forth from one side of the house to the other, chasing his rivals away from each. He seems to relish the challenge; he’ll stop from time to time to perch atop the bean fence posts and sing, loudly.

Cranky as he is, Buzzy Boy doesn’t buzz everyone. No visiting friend has been dive-bombed. He ignores the barkie-boys and the cat-people, and they show no interest in him. If I stay working out in the garden as dusk falls, I'll hear a buzz near my ear; Buzzy Boy has arrived to herd me home. As I pass his feeders, garden basket in hand, he snags a quick, late-evening sup.

One day last fall he hovered in front of our faces - not dive-bombing, but seeming to look us in the eyes. A few days later we realized we hadn't seen him since - he was apparently saying goodbye for the winter. This summer when he arrived, instead of the usual dive-bomb, we each got another hovering greeting.

How very cool is that?

Originally printed in The Concord Monitor,  September 1, 2016, as "A Buzz in the Air."

Photo c Charley Freiberg, 2016; artwork c Debra Marshall, 2016