Cold Spell With Hummingbirds

Ice at the Victory Fountain, across the street

It's been five or six days now, seems longer. Sunny--that's a plus--but cold. Our trio of crows is sticking close together, more huddled than perched, on the utility pole at the corner. A squadron of Canada Geese has been wheeling around in the air.

One of the Bills--our collective name for all the ruby-faced hummingbirds around here--has been in a territorial snit lately, rattling off a tsk-ing scold at any rival who gets near his feeder just outside my wife's window. He puffs out his iridescent chest, and blindingly thrums his little wings, holding himself in a dynamic but stationary posture of confrontation. The interloper zips away as Bill gives chase.

Bill, being Bill

Between these moments of drama, Bill poses and grooms himself, using the perch as a strop to straighten his needle-like bill. The sugar water in his feeder is mostly frozen; perhaps it's the cold that's making him so tetchy. Whatever--it's not long before we'll see another hyperactive skirmish. As she looks out her window at the nearby rhody upon which hangs the feeder, K gaily exclaims, "This is a hell of a lot better than watching television."