The week our youngest leaves home, an albino
ruby-throated hummingbird hovers at our feeder, furious
brushstrokes of a painter without a palette, a blackjack
dealer’s shuffled deck. Her tail feathers—is she a she?—
are a meringue of whipped air. Her wings are opera
fans fluttering in box seats, the brief life of a child’s
snow angel before it disappears. Was it ever there?
