Two chilly nights and southbound geese overhead have me thinking about seasonal changes. Hummingbirds are tanking up for their trip to the Yucatan. Early in the morning, and just before dark, their activity around the feeders is intense.
The sun has warmed the rocks on the south side of the house, and I lean against them, facing the feeders, which are only a few inches away. It's an excellent place to observe the small winged warriors. Supper is over, and while Don watches a spy movie, I spend the pleasant part of an hour there, absorbed by their acrobatics, their chirps and the hum of their wings. Occasionally one of them hovers just in front of my face, trying to ascertain what kind of a creature is sharing their space, and I steel myself not to flinch. Their battles over the sugar water are swift and fierce.
They fly back and forth between the feeders and the geraniums.
As the sky darkens, the chirps of the hummingbirds give way to the sounds of the night. I head inside, refreshed by the ambience of the evening. And in the spy movie, the good guys win.