The Hummingbird

As he does all day, the hummingbird sits on his perch staring at me. You would think he would be grateful for me putting sugar water in the feeder that hangs between us.  But this is a look of contempt. A stare down with a message. Him with his pointy beak and me with my vodka soda. Just staring. I have to admit I am a bit miffed at this little guy. And I mean “little” – he’s the smallest hummingbird I’ve ever seen. He sits there all day and chases away any other hummingbirds who come near the feeder. So my neighbors enjoy a multitude of birds and feather colors, I am stuck with this little, angry, brown and white bastard. That’s right he’s not even colorful. I tried to connect with him – I even looked him up on the Internet. One site called his type of hummingbird “punkish.” I take a sip of my vodka soda, and off he flies. I stare at his empty perch. I wonder if he wishes the hummingbirds he chases off will come back as much as I wish he would come back.