Hummingbirds

The bottom of a dumpster is no place for a baby hummingbird. But there she is, shielded from wet newspapers and heavy trashbags by the branch her nest still clings to. Did you know hummingbird nests are made from spiderwebs? It makes sense, because they’re so small, and soft like cotton. But cotton doesn’t grow in California suburbs.

She should be dead. But instead, there she is, in the last place you would expect to find her. She’s breathing tiny little breaths illuminated by the green feathers starting to come through on her back. And if you lean in, you can see her chest rising and falling quickly. Some of her feathers are missing, and her beak is opening and closing in the near-darkness, and setting sun barely lights up the trash around her.

Half of me wants to push the branches aside and pick up the baby and her nest. Do the right thing. Call wildlife services and save her. The other half of me wants to scoop her up and place her on the hot concrete of the parking lot and crush her. She’s the size of a golf ball, and a thousand times more delicate. I would feel her tiny bones crunch beneath my foot like toothpicks. Her beak would break, and it would be quick, and afterwards I would poke at the smear of her body with a stick.

I wonder what condensed spiderweb feels like.

I reach down to pluck the nest from the branch. There’s something in it. Another baby hummingbird. It’s dead. I jerk back and drop it like it’s made of ember. One of its wings is pulled back over itself, bent in an unnatural position, and it’s stiff. It falls delicately through the leaves and lands next to the other. She doesn’t move, just breathes and breathes and breathes and stares at the body of her brother.

I watch her watch it.

I close my eyes, drop the heavy lid back down onto the dumpster with a clang, and walk to where her nest used to be.

The mother is flying around. She’s been circling for the past half hour, undoubtedly looking for her children. It’s sad, watching her. Imagine leaving your children only to come back to find the entire neighborhood gone. I wonder if birds even feel things. Does she feel panicked? Or just curious?

I walk back to the dumpster and crack the lid open. Neither of the birds have moved. It smells like the space under my front porch, and I wonder how many dead things are inside and under.

I close the lid, gently this time. I’ll come back to check on her tomorrow. Who knows? Maybe she’ll survive.