Last week, a hummingbird flew into my house through the front door, which someone had left ajar. It hummed about for a moment, and then it tried to fly through a skylight. I ran to get a ladder.
Trying to catch the tiny creature, I experienced a metaphor in its literal form. Here, in fact, was a glass ceiling. My houseguest wanted to rise above the invisible barrier, but it obstructed her ascent. I identified the bird as a female. And then I caught her, and cupped her in my hand. She was impossibly light. Next time you pick up a penny, you’ll know: This is how much a hummingbird weighs.
“Iris!” I yelled, and my four-year-old came running. I love to show her wild creatures, and she loves to see them.
We took the hummer out through the door where it entered. Then I showed Iris something almost no one knows about hummingbirds. If you hold one on its back, it won’t fly away. An ornithologist friend of mine showed me this trick once.
I held her like this for several moments in my open hand, while my daughter gently touched its velveteen breast.
“It’s so little,” she said.
Then I lifted my hand like I was releasing a feather and, just like that, the hummingbird lifted off and hummed away. Moments later, I saw her probing my hydrangea—or maybe that was her friend.
Iris went back inside to her book, once again leaving the door ajar.
I’m Chris Fink, and that’s my perspective
