That Pressing Feeling by the Riverbank
Darting from flower to flower, her lustrous coat illuminated by the midday sun, Colibree made quick work of each nectar source along the crashing green river.
Colibree could remember every flower she ever met. The ones she visited today, she was careful to give a good long rest and return only as soon as they could once again spare a splash of nectar for a parched tongue.
Good day, little Bree!
She turned her beak toward the river and saw Oscar the Otter, backfloating with a grin, waving a furry paw.
Hello, Oscar, how goes the hunt today?
Oscar dipped his paw in the river and brought a heavy gray stone down swiftly against his belly. A loud crack. He held up a small crustacean for Colibree to see. A smile spread wide and Oscar’s black eyes grew large with delight.
You don’t waste much time, she told him, and set off upriver.
Colibree was stalking a fly struggling to flee the silky confines of a spiderweb when a harsh caw rang out. She recognized it. Klaus the Crow was announcing his dominance from a nearby treetop.
How do you do, Klaus? Kicking off the conversation might curry his favor, she reasoned.
Klaus cawed again and grumbled to his acquaintance down below.
I’m very busy. There’s simply not enough sunshine for all I’ve got to do. Be well, Bree.
And with a flap of his broad black wings, Klaus rose from the treetop, joining his crew, a murder of crows gliding overhead, on the lopsided end of their V formation.
Colibree wondered briefly about Klaus, then busied herself with the fly, hopeful that the spider, too, might return.
So the days passed.
Sometimes, between snacks, Colibree fondly remembered the days of her youth. Before embarking on her own, she ran with a charm of other hummingbirds. Things felt festive with the charm. But the truth was, there wasn’t much time to reminisce. For she had to eat every ten minutes to power her mighty wings, which flapped a hundred times every second.
She was devouring a tiny napping spider early one morning when she recognized the crack of a rock against a crayfish and looked across the river.
Oscar! Might we visit for a moment?
She admired Oscar’s languid backstroke as he swam nearer. He gnawed at his crayfish, then looked up at Colibree and raised an eyebrow.
You see, it’s just… in two or three autumns I’ll be gone, like the elders from my charm. And each day is splendid, and I’m grateful for every delicious gnat, but… I just feel like there’s something more I should do. Something beyond the mundane. Beyond snacks. Beyond the riverbed. Have you ever felt that way, Oscar?
Oscar dove down to the river bottom, returned with a pawful of tiny stones and began to juggle. He splashed about gleefully for a moment. Finally, he spoke.
Absolutely not, Bree. Feel the breeze between your feathers. Taste the nectar as it goes down. Enjoy a swim. Bask in that warm sun. Just chill. Have a little fun. That’s all there is.
And with another crack, then a slurp, Oscar dove down deep and didn’t emerge for four minutes. When he came up, he was back at the den, where his crew, a romp of otters, were just kicking off the evening’s festivities.
Colibree buzzed along the riverbed, racked with uncertainty. Hearing Oscar’s perspective only fanned the flames of her longing.
It wasn’t long before she heard the racket. The murder of crows was cruising overhead. She called out to Klaus.
It wasn’t until her third yelp that he heard the desperation in her little voice and begrudgingly dove, twig in mouth, to join Colibree by the rushing river. She didn’t beat around the bush. She asked him.
He spat out his twig and looked her in the eye.
You know what your problem is, Bree? You’re perpetually hunting, but you get nothing done. You’ve got to be industrious. Grab a twig. Build a nest. Make a home. Build a family. Where there’s building, there’s purpose, the aging crow assured her.
She nodded and thanked Klaus for the chat. But as the days passed, she found his advice all the more disconcerting.
First, there was the question of time. By the time she had scouted a meal or finished one, it was mere minutes before she needed to focus on where her next fix of nectar and insects would come from. And even if she could master the business of building elaborate nests and raising baby birds, wouldn’t they one day face the same kerfuffle?
A few moons later, one winter evening, humming along the riverbank in search of treats, Colibree spotted Klaus down by the river.
As she fluttered in place behind a knobbly old tree branch, she heard him say to a fat old beaver on the shore, in a low murmur, I’ve built and I’ve built, Max. And my chicks have flown, leaving an empty nest behind them. But I feel just like that nest. Empty. Inconsequential. Like there’s something else I should be doing.
Colibree heard the beaver laugh.
I know this sob story, Klaus. But it’s like I tell you every week. You’ve got to sharpen that beak ’til you can fell a small tree. Gather up a few and you’ve got yourself a dam. You haven’t built anything ’til you’ve built a dam. That’s the ticket.
