We are out here in the west during the summer. We heard disconsolate family news from back home in India.
In the solace of early mornings, we heard chirps of Anna’s Hummingbird outside the window sill. The female had laid an egg in a nest resting on the frailest stem of a tree branch. The branch wobbled precariously with every gust of wind. Every day, my wife and I woke up early and listened to the bird calls in the morning; we never saw the more colorful male hummingbird despite spending hours at the window. We kept the lights off in the room and at sunset pulled the blinds as the bird rested in darkness.
A few days later we saw the baby bird, a mere twig for its beak, the tiniest bird I have seen alive, its eyes tiny as a smudged inkblot on a page. During these restless days, she brought a serene calm to us. Now, she has flown from home. Such resplendent and an evanescent glimpse of flight. A gentle reminder of miracles and fickleness that fill our short lives.