The Boss

As alpha-male hummingbird, Alf considers it is his duty to exercise exclusive rights over the feeder that hangs outside our kitchen window. From his favourite twig on the nearby star magnolia, he launches ferocious attacks on any interlopers daring enough – or thirsty enough – to challenge his authority. Usually, they take off in a hurry. Only occasionally does a rival dare to make a stand and engage in a vertical skirmish, a brief battle of wills before the boss, flashing boastful colours, returns to his twig in triumph.

Fortunately for me, this tiny tyrant has decided that I’m not a major threat. He keeps a wary eye on me, however, and if I stand close to the feeder, he’ll whirr past my head to perch only inches from my face. At such close quarters I can see clearly how his long thread-like tongue flickers out at lightning speed, how he quivers with pent up energy and how, lit by the sun behind and crimson.

Alf has been twitchier than usual lately, keeping a constant lookout across the garden. The ru fous humming birds, which migrate up from the States, are due to return for summer, so perhaps there are new rivals on the block, or perhaps the warmer weather has triggered romantic yearnings. Alf, I suspect, may be feeling the urge to make more hummingbirds.

I’ve watched the mating ritual of these birds, and it’s every bit as astonishing as you might expect given their supercharged natures. The performance takes place in a roomy air space between two of our tall trees. Anticipation begins when the girlfriend, disguised as a particularly large flower bud, settles into her seat on the magnolia. Her suitor makes a sudden entrance orienting himself to blast her with the full sunlit effect of his regalia and when he’s sure of her undivided attention he darts off and climbs, up, up, until he’s a speck against the dazzle. Higher still. And then he plummets.

It’s a death-defying dive. He must reach a speed sufficient to send his tail feathers vibrating in an explosive squeal and then, before he slams into the ground, make a Uturn and end up facing her to flaunt his glory once again. I’m not party to what happens after that, but I do know that nest building proceeds apace.

A hummingbird nest seems an impossible feat of dexterity. Spider silk is key. Sticky and stretchy it holds the whole expandable structure together. Our hard-working mother will start with a platform of soft plant fibres and then use her bill to weave moss into the sides of a cup no bigger than a golf ball. Working as carefully as a potter perfecting a vessel (I find this part particularly endearing) she’ll neaten the rim by hovering and rotating while she squeezes the downy materials between her chin and her chest.

For camouflage she’ll dab flakes of lichen onto the outside. There’ll be no problem finding supplies of lichen around here, but these birds are adaptable and have been known to use substitutes like paint chips. All this technique comes in a brain the size of a corn niblet. No craft school, no technical college, no mother of her own will teach her how to set about the complex task. She’ll complete the whole process in less than a week and incubate her two little eggs for another two weeks before feeding the hatchlings – every fifteen minutes! – until they finally spill over and fledge.

Throughout this process, I’m sorry to say, Alf will be AWOL, possibly off to strut his stuff elsewhere, possibly at this very moment off to the pub for a pint? Ah well! I don’t suppose he ever claimed to be a paragon of domesticity.

BY LAURA ANDERSON