Not again. I heard the distinctive sound early that morning—a muffled rattle behind boxes in the garage. A few months earlier we discovered a baby rattlesnake there and I was fortunate that a workman was present and willing to relocate it. This day, though, I was alone.
So, I said a little prayer—please go away on your own. I did not relish the idea of engaging that snake, and I certainly did not want to kill it, though I knew that it couldn’t live in my garage, threatening me or my dogs. Ugh.
I deliberately ignored the sound at first. Throughout the day as I wandered into the garage I would hear that rattle, again and again. It didn’t seem to be a large snake, but I’d read somewhere that the little ones were just as dangerous.
After a few hours of this, I resigned myself to the task at hand—the snake wasn’t going away on its own. I would need to remove it. My plan was to harass it into moving and capture it a container with an easy-to-manage lid—then I’d release it somewhere wild and far enough away, maybe a few hills away in a rock outcropping.
Filled with dread, I armored up, donning gloves and heavy clothing and securing a suitable container with a tight-fitting lid. A found a long pole that I’d use to distract and move the reptile. At least that was the plan. I’d never done this before. My heart pounded.
Into the recesses of the garage I followed the sound which seemed to emanate from behind a few dusty boxes near the far wall. Armed with the pole , I quickly pulled the boxes away from the wall, to reveal the source of that rattle.
It was not a rattlesnake.
And I wouldn’t need the heavy gloves, or the pole, or the container.
For, there, entangled in a tacky spiders web, was a magenta and brownish-green hummingbird now weakly fluttering in an attempt to free himself. The web encased his delicate feet and body, and wrapped as a massive cocoon around the bird’s head and especially his beak.
I shed my gloves and with my bare hands, gently scooped the bird from the sticky mess. Such a tiny creature—and now nearly completely passive—apparently exhausted from the day-long struggle. Gingerly, I carried him outside into the fresh air. He lay still as I disentangled the material from his fragile feet, being careful to not tug too hard. I then unwound the sticky clumps from his head and beak.
Once freed from the web, the hummingbird lay completely still, lifeless in my hand, except for the movement of his eyes. His iridescent magenta feathers lifted to the light movement of air and seemed as if to sparkle in the filtered light. I pulled the last strands of web from his body.
He would need nourishment. With one hand cupped around his still form, I set to work— carrying him with me as I mixed a small amount of sugar water, poured a few drops into a plastic bottle cap and set myself up as a human infirmary, seated in the shade of a walnut tree. With hummingbird in one hand and bottle cap in the other, I angled the two together, touching the surface of the sweet liquid to the tip of his slender beak.
He drank.
And drank some more, still laying sideways in the palm of my hand.
For at least five full minutes, he lay nearly motionless against my skin as I marveled at his intricacy, spellbound by his color. I cupped him loosely, fervently hoping he would survive. I thought about his struggle—the entire day—while I went about my business. I am so sorry I did not help you sooner… if my good thoughts and energies can surround you and bring you to life, let it be so.
“Please live” I whispered aloud.
My memory of this remains even now as a moment suspended in time— the privilege of holding such a magnificent creature in the palm of my hand and fervently wishing him life. A gift.
After a time, he sat up on his delicate feet, still in my palm. He paused, and then, to my delight, he took flight, buzzing past my head to the tree branch above. He sat there for a moment, basking in the sunlight. And flew off.
My heart swelled in gratitude. He lives.
For many months thereafter, whenever I ventured outdoors, a greenish-magenta male hummingbird perched on a branch or clothesline nearby— often not more than six feet from my shoulder. It was him, I was certain of it. It was as if he was there to say thank you.
Even now, years later, I often hear hummingbirds close by… sometimes so close I feel the air from their wings. A male might land on a nearby branch and tilt his head as if to say hello.
“Hello again,” I say.