nectar runs red
juice bottle homemade feeder
one hummer lingers
© Freeda Baker Nichols
Tag Archives: hummingbird
Wordless Wednesday 2014-06-11
Hummingbird on swing. © Baker Nichols
“Just a swangin’ “
Towel in the Willow
My hummingbird is back. And the corkscrew willow is new to our yard. My husband planted it this spring. And it leans a little and had to be supported in the winds. So Husband put part of a towel around a branch with a string attached and tied it to the fence. Hummingbird arrived and although there’s a hanging feeder for him, he was attracted to the towel in the willow. He must have thought it was a flower because he flew straight for it, nearly bumping into it.
Oops!
But then he tried to taste it. Didn’t work, but he kept trying. Poor baby! I really think I must talk to Husband about this. What do you think?
What flower is this?
© 2014 Freeda Baker Nichols
NaBloPoMo#15 Gone South
all the hummers flew
in the month of September
took the southern route
Ooops! This one is make-up work. I missed one for the 15th of November. Also need to make up a couple more I skipped at the beginning of the month. Blogging daily for a month is difficult! —-Freeda
Lonely Bird
This little bird has no friend.
He never invites any bird in
and he does not seem to even care
that he has never learned to share.
He fights the others in mid-air–
but how would he feel if he had to run?
Would he think it was not much fun?
© Freeda Baker Nichols
Selfish Hummingbird
This little hummer stops by for a treat.
He never lets the other hummers eat.
You’d think he’d like to share his food,
but he buzzes in with a selfish mood.
Hummingbird King of the Crop
A white-shell egg, the size of tiny pea
lay warm beneath a feathered tummy fluff
in nest of hair and twine on limb of tree
that swayed when April’s wind blew gentle puff.
The hut was small as walnut shell–just right
to house the hummingbird in early spring.
When mama bird was left both day and night,
on little nest, she taught her babe to sing.
And now, the young bird’s grown and seems content
to wing above the trees and creeks and rocks.
Although he wonders where his papa went,
he thrives on nectar from pink four o’clocks.
He never frets but sings his song in trills
that echo like a love song from the hills.
Copyright, 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols
Freeda Baker Nichols 