Hummingbirds Came Like Thoughts

By Peter Bowden

In the deep stillness of late afternoon, the hummingbirds came like thoughts—quick, bright, and gone before one could name them. They hovered at the edge of the porch, their wings a hum lost in the breathless heat, feeding from the red-glass feeder that swayed gently on its hook. The woman watched from her rocker, a cold glass sweating beside her, the only sound the ticking of the ceiling fan above and the distant creak of cicadas leaning into their own kind of hymn.

Each bird was a flash of color, a stroke from a celestial paintbrush—emerald, ruby, a whisper of blue. They darted with purpose, but there was a kind of wild joy in it too, a dance choreographed by instinct and sunlight. She imagined the world they saw: the garden mapped in nectar, the air a series of invisible trails and sparks. She didn’t move, not wanting to disturb their rhythm, as if their presence was a fragile thing that might slip away if acknowledged too directly.

And then they vanished, all at once, like the ending of a song she hadn’t realized was playing. The feeder swung empty in the hush, and the woman leaned back with a soft smile that lingered. In their leaving, the hummingbirds had left behind something unnamed—a quiet stirring in the chest, a flutter in the soul, as if part of their lightness had brushed against her and stayed.

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