I’ve never held a hummingbird in my hand. And it’s not like I haven’t wanted to. My heart swells to overflowing while imagining the feeling of a tiny bird body thrumming at a hundred miles an hour against fingers and palm. It would be rather like capturing a giant feathered bumblebee.

I’ve always adored hummingbirds – and fed them wherever I have lived. They were especially abundant in the high desert of New Mexico, though the Rufous was by far the most aggressive and prolific, and would chase away any Ruby Throated or frankly any gossamer winged creature that dared compete with their man-made nectar. The sound of their wings was distinctive, and amplified like a nest of mad hornets racing around trying to rebuild a damaged hive.

In our house overlooking the Sangre de Cristo mountains was a greenhouse just outside the kitchen. Occasionally a hummingbird would…