The bird takes a break from feeding and darts straight for a tiny branch, no thicker than your little finger, about 15 feet away from and higher than the glass of nectar. The short bare branch was left behind from when I trimmed the small maple. Little did I know it would be the bird’s staging and resting perch.
The bird is only 3 inches long, so to see it perched in a rather sizable tree is almost comical. If I had not seen it fly from the feeder to the branch it would be hard to pick out. Its beak is proportionately too long for its body but just right for probing nectar from the sweet tubes of bee balm—by nature—or the hanging red feeder—by human.
When the ruby-throated hummingbird returns to the feeder, I watch in awe and ask aloud: Little bird, are you really going to fly to Mexico next month? There’s no answer, just a chipping call as the tiny diner gets excited when another hummer invades its air space. Then there’s a whir of wings, at 80 beats per seconds, as the birds nearly tangle and then jet away.
They’ll be back. The hummingbirds are feeding heavy now, building up fat reserves on a body that normally weighs 3 grams. That’s, well, almost nothing. That’s the weight of three paper clips. Hold three paper clips in your hand. You’re holding the weight of a hummingbird.
So feed they must to store enough body fat for the 1,800-mile trip to Mexico, a trip demanding 500 nonstop miles over the Gulf of Mexico. That is, unless the bird spots an offshore oil rig or fishing boat during the 20-hour gulf flight. It has been known to stop for a rest on such structures or vessels.
Averaging 30 miles per hour, while flying daytime only and taking feeding breaks, it’s a long trip no matter how much whir is in your wings. The hummingbird at my feeder isn’t thinking about miles right now. It’s living by instinct. Time to feed, fatten up and fly away.