David and the Hummingbird
For Nelson
Mandela (1918-2013)
Joyce tells a story of
the day
the bird flew into the
shed
and would not leave;
it beat its wings until
it fell
exhausted to the floor.
But it didn’t end like
that,
nor was this the
beginning—
The morning of the Kill,
the hummingbird flew
through the open door
and circled round and
round the blood
“It was not interested to
feed,” she said,
but just to see and
understand.
It went up into the
rafters
and then down again
towards the cement floor.
Its blues and greens
dancing in
the light and dark;
the corners hiding it and
then
like magic, letting it be
seen.
David tried to make it
leave;
first, sugar feeders
lured it outside;
then, when it was noon,
the
darkest noon they’d ever
seen,
the thunder began.
He set the sugar water
inside the garage door
“It must not starve,” he
said.
The day was hurried, like
the
wings—it beat and beat.
The world grew still
behind the
murmur of the bird
as if to move, to breathe,
would be too much.
The rain was sheets of
ice;
it pierced the ground, it
tore into the hillside’s heart
forcing the mountains to
slide and the roads to close.
At dusk the rain stopped,
bringing on a night that had not known a day.
The sky cleared and that
was when she said she knew
the bird’s heart had
begun to burst,
“You could hear it
banging in your ears.”
The small buzzing body
lifted up to the
ceiling one last time and
dropped.
From where it lay the
stag’s head was a foot away;
the eyes of the beast,
strained and dead;
the bullet hole straight
through its neck
revealed the moon in the
night sky which shone
like a polished coin.
He picked it up to rest
it for the night
in a shoebox with soft
muslin cloth.
She said, “Its eyes
brimmed with tears.”
Was it fear? It did not
tremble.
Was it relief? Did it not
know it was only David?
And he said, “It is
bereft. It must be saved.”
Then began the longest
night.
He left the bird to sleep
beneath
the stars. It did not
know
the inside of their
house.
It could get disoriented
in that space.
He lay beside her in
their bed, his ever
faithful
heart racing beneath her
hand.
Kindness cannot be
measured by a single good deed—
a few here, a few there,
some withheld.
Love measured out in
spoons
as if it were a finite
bucket of gold dust.
He would not sleep—
he tore the covers off
and shot down the stairs—
It would be cold, the
raccoons might overturn the box.
The bird twitched and
murmured in its sleep,
he put it on the garden
table and
covered its feet.
Back in bed he tossed and
turned—the coyotes would not spare its life
One a.m. and out he went
again.
Carrying the box in, he
saw its
eyes open and look at
him.
What a strange look it
gave, as if
there was no meaning
there—
a still hard look, but
liquid eyes,
as if it was not a bird
to
speak of anything—
its mystery not a mystery
at all
for it hid nothing
and revealed nothing both
at once.
He sat beside it in the
hall
he wrung his hands
he stood up
and paced and breathed
he towered over it,
afraid of it
and yet he had to watch
it once again.
It had been resting while
he paced
now it turned its head
a movement so small an
immeasurable dot in space
and looked up at him.
They stared into each
other’s eyes
this grown man and this
miniature creature of the flower world
Decades he had lived so
well
this small bird seemed to
know it too.
“What is the meaning of
it all?” he asked aloud
The hummingbird closed
its eyes and went to sleep.
He sat down again and
prayed a while
As the bird’s breast rose
and fell;
the morning light would
bring it back;
he dreamed of it in his
garden years from now.
As the sun came fiercely
into the room
it was not clear any more
who slept and who kept vigil—
the bird watched him as
he slept
but closed its eyes again
when he began to stir.
The hummingbird stayed
with David until
the stag was gone, a day late,
in the butcher’s van.
Their friends who’d shot
the beast would send them some to taste.
David’s heart leapt with
joy,
the sun was hot and the
little one was gathering
its body and
shaking the sleep away.
He tried to catch its eye
again but it did not look at him,
and then, as if the night
was no time to go,
as if it had tried for
David’s sake alone,
it died under a blazing
morning sun at eleven o’clock.
There are many sorts of
men—
some of them are cruel to
humans
and rescue animals; they
are kind to dogs.
“Some men are good for
all to see,
Some men are always
good,” Joyce said to me.
