Still in my PJs—leggings and a T-shirt to be exact—I’m out in the garden early this morning to water. It hasn’t rained for a couple of weeks, unusual for May, and it’s been unseasonably hot and windy too—not a good combination for the kale transplants I put in a few days ago.
I’m using a big, fat, gray garden hose that’s hooked up to a pump in the lake. I’ve got my thumb over the end of the hose, regulating the water flow and directing the stream wherever I want to send it: A gentle rain for the droopy kale and the calendula volunteers; a full-on flow to give the asparagus bed a deep drink; and a fine spray for the newly scattered marigold seeds in their battered-green-plastic-flower boxes. I notice that the lake water is comfortably warmish—not frigid cold like the water from the well—and it’s also full of good, greenish nutrients that the plants love.
In a bit I’ll move on to water the sugar-snap peas that are climbing their bamboo trellis, the strawberry plants with their white blossoms and tiny, hard berries and the newly planted tomato, cucumber, and cabbage seedlings.
I’m enjoying the cool morning breeze and soft sounds of the waking world when I’m surprised by a hum above my left shoulder and a bright, ruby-throated hummingbird appears magically in front of me.
I’ve seen him out here before; he came by the other day when I was watering too, just after I’d planted the kale. He hovers at the edge of my hose spray, then darts away.
A moment later he’s back, curiously flitting close and then closer to the veil of water. I adjust my thumb to make an even finer mist for him and he dips in for a little shower. I chuckle with delight.
After a few more forays into the spray, he lands in the corner of the nearest flower box and proceeds to indulge in a proper bathing ritual.
I keep the fine spray just off to the side of him as he dips, bobs, flutters his wings and ruffles up his iridescent blue-green feathers. He’s getting totally soaked and seems absolutely delighted by it all—preening his feathers and then wiping his long, thin, black beak on the edge of the box.
Three minutes, then five—I watch in wonder at his antics—his black head now slick with wet; his florescent-orange throat patch speckled with fine mud flecks; his white underbelly streaked with brown. If his objective was to get clean, then he hasn’t succeeded at all. However, I don’t think this was intended as a cleansing bath—this is just pure delight in wetness.
A few more wiggles, twists, and shakes and then he’s airborne again, zooming away to whatever his hummingbird morning has to offer.
I don’t know if he’ll come back again tomorrow, but I’ll certainly be here, waiting with hose in hand.