Hummingbirds are drawn to the atrium at the top of our stairwell.
The blue glass lantern looks like a feeder, I think.
But the atrium is like a fish wier. Once a bird flies in, it can’t get out.
There is something sad and poetic about this, as they flutter from corner to corner. Like little feathered Marcel Marceaus, they feel the edges of the glass box, probe the invisible, flap wings against the glass.
Freedom is a fraction of an inch away but the glass will not yield to their perceptions.
Sometimes, on the outside, a mate flies up to the glass. You can feel the concern. Continue reading