It was one of those serendipitous afternoons when all the conditions were just right for sitting outside with a good book and a cup of tea. What that translates into for me here is going out on my little deck that sits high above the surrounding landscape and from which I have a great view of the pond as well as the woods to the east. Once I’d gotten myself comfortably ensconced in my folding lawn chair, I took my usual few moments to look around and take in the current state of my immediate area, which includes what few potted flowers and plants I grew this year.

As always, the marigolds didn’t disappoint, nor did the nasturtiums. And the petunia seedlings I bought have also done me proud considering their cramped living quarters. While a decidedly far cry from the extensive flower gardening I used to do, this bit of color on the deck makes all the difference in the world between what might otherwise be a barren view and one alive with some of the hues that only annuals can provide.

And I am not the only one to think so, for the flowers were all alive that day with bees and butterflies and other insects buzzing across their surfaces and disappearing into their more secret regions. The buzzing continued until a louder more insistent one started up and that effectively drowned them all out. The bees scattered to make way for a hummingbird that had spotted my flowers and was now moving from blossom to blossom, harvesting the precious nectar.

I stayed as perfectly still as I could, my book down, and only my eyes moving as they followed the diminutive but very hyperactive bird dashing determinedly from pot to pot and back again, until suddenly, there it was, just inches from my face, hovering, rising and dipping, as in a sort of dance. Then, it was gone, as quickly as it had appeared, and I sat there in shock at the unexpected, but not totally surprising, event.

As the shock of my close encounter with this iridescent little creature wore off, I pondered if that is common hummingbird behavior, this buzzing of a human, this checking out of whatever that object was sitting there not far from the flowers. It hadn’t seemed at all intimidated by my nearby presence as it harvested the nectar, and it showed no trepidation at all as it hung suspended, hovering, just inches from my eyes, inspecting, ascertaining, reassuring itself that, while I posed no danger, I was also not very useful from a nutritional standpoint.

The hummingbird, or one of its kin, returned the next day for another go at the marigolds and nasturtiums, but this time, it kept its distance, making quick work of it and then speeding off on wings that beat from 50 to 200 times per second. Hence the humming sound that the bird is named for, and aptly so.

I know enough about nature to know that such gifts as this hummingbird visitation are not to be hoped or planned for. It simply happened, the result of a moment in time when conditions were just right for it to occur. In short, I was in the right place at the right time, and the hummingbird simply happened to be in the neighborhood at that very moment, enabling our fates to collide. In my many years of setting out nectar feeders for hummingbirds and always trying to be ready for whatever happens, none has ever come this close to me before, and may never again. For those few moments, I went from being the observer to being observed, and that’s what makes this particular event so special.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rachell1950@hotmail.com.