For the past week and a half, a hummingbird has visited me throughout the day as I write at my rectangular kitchen table. She swoops in and out around the banisters of the backyard porch and smells the herbs from the hanging garden.
I don't have a nectar feeder for her, though. So, I wondered what she was doing visiting me every morning. I watched as her wings fluttered faster then I could see instead of writing. As each day passed, I found I'd space out in the direction of the sliding glass window trying to figure out what my characters were going to do next and hoping she would come visit me again.
All day yesterday I wrote and wrote trying to meet a deadline for my editor. My hands ached after several hours, but then I saw the hummingbird and how her wings flapped, and I typed more. Later, I noticed, after she fluttered around, that she rested on one of the branches of the Mulberry in the back yard. Her tiny body moved left then right. Left then right. On a break, I went out to look at the branch and saw a tiny tiny little nest not yet completed.
Today, as I write this, I look for her but she hasn't come yet. I wonder if she is as tired as I am of writing. I wonder if in the next couple days when I begin writing again if she'll return so I can see her work as I do.