My mother loved birds. She studied them, fed them, followed them, and learned to whistle their intricate calls. Not only can I not whistle, but I don’t have the attention span to learn and retain everything my mother knew about birds.

But, there is no question that I love them. Especially the ones in my backyard. This morning, I hauled a watering can to a lantana that I am trying to talk into surviving. As I trickled water from the can onto the bush, a hummingbird came down to try to drink. I told him that the stream was too strong for him, but he ignored me and tried anyway. I told him I would put a fresh batch of sugar swill into his little feeder. He sat on the lantana, a mere foot or so away from me, and waited for me to finish watering while he chirped that little tiny rusty hinge sound that hummingbirds make. Then he sat on the shepherd’s hook that holds his feeder, and waited for me to go to the house, refill the feeder, and return.

It was an encounter that my mother would have treasured, and probably made several phone calls about, one of them to me. I wish I could phone her today and say, “Guess what happened to me this morning?”

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.  And thanks for the hummingbird. I am sure you pointed him my direction.