A Resonance of Emerald

I took a stroll outside the office today to burn off some mental energy. Although it was in the low 80s, the humidity made it feel a dozen degrees warmer. The air was dense and intrusive. It was like breathing through thick cotton gauze. The city was coming out of its curl as people navigated their way through the miasmatic morning, cardboard coffee cups guiding their every step. Across the way, a pair of daredevils were cleaning the windows on the 10th floor of a 30-story building with the casual ease of a couple of retirees enjoying a lazy game of chess in the park. Cigarette butts and ATM receipts rollicked and swirled against the curve of the curb as clumps of middle-aged women graciously collided at the double doors while complaining that their respective weekends were "too short."

I spent that time just kicking along, contemplating everything and nothing at all. Sometimes, just trying to come up with something to think about is laborious - especially when you go back into the office and realize that you just wasted a perfectly good time-wasting opportunity. And at that moment, something on the ground caught my eye. It was something that made me look twice and I stared at it while my brain flipped through my mental Rolo-Dex until I found a close match. It was a shimmering emerald color, but I could see it subtly expand and contract - and then twitch! My mind was still processing this new data when my mouth grabbed the reins and I blurted out, "It's a hummingbird!"

Have you ever seen a hummingbird in person? It's quite a vision. Emily Dickinson once described it as a "resonance of emerald/a rush of cochineal" - and I think that explains it nicely. Watch one of those little suckers hip-hop from one flower to another, wings motoring in a blinding buzz so fast that it appears to levitate. At first glance, it looks like a large bug, and indeed, it is no bigger than a cicada, though not nearly as menacing. When you do spot one, it's inevitable that you call, "Honey, come here, you gotta see this!" without once taking your eye off of it for fear that you will look back and your special little moment has taken wing elsewhere, leaving you with a bubble of enchantment lodged in your throat. Seeing a hummingbird will crease a smile on the coldest of faces.

This little fellow was just sitting on the asphalt, seemingly oblivious to the concrete and steel garden of the city. He was a chubby little bird about the size of a cotton ball, with wings splayed yet drooping to the ground. He looked like a character out of some children's book. Something along the lines of "Herbie the Hummingbird Goes to the Big City," his face cocking this way and that as if he saw something new with each twitch. I couldn't tell if he was injured or just taking five, but he would waddle an inch or two, quiver his wings a bit, tick-tock his head, and repeat this every now and again. He was well out of the path of walking traffic, so there was no chance of being accidentally stepped upon. I bid myself adieu and went back into the office.

Lunch time rolled around and I decided to go visit my new little friend. He was in the grass now, but seemed to be foundering. Still, I couldn't see any visible signs of injury. I'm not an animal expert, but he looked in good health - just winded, like he flew into a window and needed a while to shake off the cobwebs. I spent some time with him before going of to get a sandwich. I met a co-worker on the way back and my attention was diverted until I was sitting back at my desk and realized I never checked on my little buddy. I decided to go visit him later that afternoon and jack-knifed myself back into my work.

At about 3 PM I took the elevator down to check in on our little visitor. He wasn't there. I looked all over, making sure to watch my every step. His feathers had blended coolly into the green of the grass and he never made a peep the entire time I had known him. I thought that maybe a cat had seen him and snatched him up without even breaking stride. Maybe he tried to do too much too fast and fell into the sewer grate. I couldn't bear to think of my little buddy, helpless and alone in the dark, with all that is nasty and loathsome in the recesses of the underground. This happy, plucky little bird, shimmering and precious possibly being set upon by beings it would not understand. A true innocent.

But, part of me wants to believe that my tiny friend marshaled his energy and burst into the air, wings hammering into the humidity, hovering for a moment and then zipping along - ever mindful of navigating his way out of the city with his needle-like bill guiding his every move. I'll still go by that spot where I met my little friend and remember with a smile the brief moments we had together. I hope that I can see him again tomorrow.

But, even more so, I hope I do not.