Postcard Poem – Hummingbird, Tiny Engine


Female Rubythroat one day watching for the hawk.

Not a week ago a whole little battalion of hummingbirds, okay, maybe four, were duking it out over the three nectar feeders I have hung around the back yard. I could hear their high-pitched chirping all around. One, a young male had taken charge of the window feeder here at the sun-room. Learning to manage his territory as the family jewels blossomed around his throat. For a while mom had the saucer feeder and dad had the jar hanging from the corner of the garage. Then dad was gone. They say the males leave first. Then the females. Then the young of the year go last. Head south on their unimaginable journey to warmer climes where flowers are still blooming and the light is long. They go alone. Hummingbirds are not flocking birds. Fiercely territorial and solitary. Today there seems to be only one bird left whirring from one feeder to another, pausing to look at her reflection in the window. I like to think she’s peering in at me but more likely she’s checking out the hummer she sees there. A young female. Wondering where everybody went.  So fall begins. The air is chill this morning. She’ll be leaving soon. I always feel a tremendous tug at my heart as I suddenly realize they’re gone, flown out over the vast currents of air, with miles and months before their spring return. I always wonder if they’ll survive, (or if I will) if they’ll come back here. They do. Sometimes they show up looking for the window feeder before I’ve put it out. They remember, they follow that map written on their blood. I pray for them. It’s a wild prayer, broadcast like seeds tossed over the plains of sky.

The postcard…arrow postcard

The poem:



About wrensong

I am a poet who collects stones. I am a wanderer of creek beds and forests, canyons and high desert who, coming home, sometimes finds words to tell the story. I am a companion with others in the search for Deep, Wild Soul. I shape containers in time and space for others to come together to write, to tell their stories, to hold each other in the telling. I am a grandmother and the companion of a cat named Alaya. I often travel out into open country with a man who calls himself Dunewalker who has hung his hammock in my heart.
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2 Responses to Postcard Poem – Hummingbird, Tiny Engine

  1. wrensong says:

    Another season comes to a close. As much as I love the fall, this migration leaves me wondering what the winter will bring.

  2. i just got back from my afternoon walk and see that my hummingbirds left yesterday. your poem lifted my spirits!

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