I had a hummingbird stare me down.
Minding my own business, on the deck with my laptop, working, and minding my own business, a hummingbird took a hovering position in front of me, slightly above my head at a little over an arm’s length. It locked its beady little, albeit cute, eyes on me.
His little wings, a blur, flapped so fast they made that distinctive low tone hum. And he stared, waiting for me to get past my startled stage and come to a full recognition of what faced me.
At first I thought “Aw, cute.” Then I became uneasy as it held its position for a little longer than I liked. And then I began to imagine its long needle-like beak poking my eyes out.
It surged forward an inch. I froze. It repeated the move. I panicked.
I waved my arms at it, guarding my eyes, while yelling “Shoo! Shoo little bird. You seemingly cute, iridescent agent of evil! Shoo!”
The bird pulled back, gain elevation, and took one last victorious look at me.
I wanted to run, but held my ground, waiting to see its next move. From between my fingers over my eyes, I saw that the bird elevated to the feeder. I kept a cautious, terrified watch.
I’m not sure what spurred the encounter but I felt silly, surprised, and completely owned by this bird, despite the fact I out-weighed it 1,500 to 1. I also thought I could hear a little chirping laughter through the hum of the wings and the thumping of my heart in my chest.
It slurped down some of our home made nectar and buzzed away out of sight as if nothing happen.
A few hours later, I awoke from a short dozing catnap to seemingly the same bird taking the same position. I nearly fell out of my writing chair in alarm. The bird happily buzzed up and bellied up to the nectar bar and had yet another pint and laugh at my expense.
The hummingbird feeder is no longer located near my writing chair.
And by that, I mean my writing chair is now inside the apartment.
On the other side of the sliding glass door.
I’m haunted by hummingbirds.