While I intellectually knew a hummingbird was called a “humming” bird because of the sound its wings make when it flits about, I was more than fifty years old before I sat still long enough, in the right place, to hear their sounds for myself.
I was perched in the porch hammock swing when the whirring commanded my attention. I was befuddled by the noise and could not for the life of me discover where it was coming from. Putting down the book in my hands, I concentrated hard, scanning the area. Was my cell phone chirping?
I thought perhaps it was the sound of a dozen flies. A big horsefly? It was a mild spring day. Picture perfect. To my right were the hummingbird feeders. There it was again. The whirring, and then a chittering. A faraway drone?
No, it was not a nuisance horsefly or a snooping neighbor. It was the whirring and chittering of a thrilling new song. New to me, that is. This was not new to Mr. Ruby-Throated.
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