Fallen Fairy Nest

“There is a curious bird to see, called a hunning bird, no bigger then a great Beetle; that out of question lives upon the Bee, which hee eateth and catcheth amongst Flowers: For it is his Custome to frequent those places. Flowers hee cannot feed upon by reason of his sharp bill, which is like the poynt of a Spannish needle, but shorte. His fethers have a glosse like silke, and, as hee stirres, they shew to be of a chaingable coloure: and has bin, and is, admired for shape, coloure and size.” -The New English Canaan of Thomas Morton, 1637

This account from Thomas Morton which is (according to the OED) the first mention of a “hunning/humming bird” in English, was written after Morton witnessed hummingbirds for the first time, in New England and I love his guesses about the magical-seeming bird, how logical and how wrong he was about it.

(Incidentally, Thomas Morton was an extremely interesting dude and the book quoted above can be considered the first book which was banned in America.)

FYI- It’s apparently illegal to touch an active hummingbird nest. However, I found this one empty, lying on the ground, on its side, half flattened where it fell from a height of twenty or thirty feet. Considering our gardeners were set to arrive soon for their weekly (uncareful) mow and blow, I saw no harm in moving it.

Anna’s Hummingbirds build nests from plant down (which they gather by rubbing their bellies against tufty plants) and whatever plant materials will provide camouflage in their environment (dead palm leaves in my case) as well as spider silk [1] which stretches to expand around the chicks as they hatch (from eggs the size of jelly beans) and grow.[2]

I’d never seen a hummingbird nest in person but I’ve seen many, many Anna’s Hummingbirds in our backyard over the years, heard the trill of their wings as they buzz from flower to flower, watched their seemingly impossible hovering, marveled at their shimmer, at the sheer fact that these are creatures which exist.

When I was little, my mom’s best friend kept a copy of Brian Froud’s Faeries on her coffee table and I was enchanted by the idea of these magical winged beings inhabiting the forests around where we lived. I must’ve spent hours and hours hunting for them, tromping through the forest, waiting and watching, ever vigilant.

Now, if I want to see impossibly tiny beings on nigh-invisible wings, dressed in iridescent technicolor, emitting songs of dauntless joy, I simply have to do the dishes.

They zip and whirr in front of my window all year long, their uncanny magic a daily gift.