A few days ago a hummingbird came looking for the window feeder I put up in summer.
But this late in November, the bird should be long south, exactly where I am flying to at this moment. Airplanes
are miracles. I don’t mean physics, mechanics, or engineering. I am saying we board them with complete faith
that we will live. But life is a miracle, too,and is lucky more often than not. What I mean
is each life will do what it takes to get what it needs.I can’t stop thinking about that hummingbird
searching the glass. I don’t know if that just happenssometimes, a random mishap like a giddy toddler
running away from his mother, or the crueltyof humans sugaring confusion, or
if it has anything to do with the shabby shack we are building of this world. I want to say
we are no worse than a beaver, a glacier, or volcano making our own alterations. But we are hungrier, aren’t we?
I regret greed, but not the cost of my life. No life is innocent. Not the locust, the bark beetle,
the crown-of-thorns sea star. Even that misplaced bird is capable of its own sort of violence. Do I regret
that hummingbird in November? Yes, of course, for its own sake. Yet that thumbprint red throat,
that green shot glass body, is a selfish winter treat when there is too much white and black
in a black and white world and I am hungry, too, for something like a miracle to save ourselves from ourselves.
