The Hummingbird and the Dragonfly
I have been asked about the photo I use as the header for this blog by DM. I was so excited that someone had taken notice of this photo, because it is truly one of the most unusual photos I have ever taken. It is really the story behind the photo that is most fascinating (in my opinion).
Two summers ago, we weren’t fretting so much about the drought and the lack of water. The garden was in the throes of its mid-summer lushness – the cannas had reached their peak, the day lilies just kept on blooming, and the Angel Trumpet tree was just starting to set its blooms for a brilliant show in the fall.
These two came to meet on a little sprig of the Trumpet Vine we have growing along our fence. At first I thought it was an aberration, just a coincidence. Why would a Hummingbird and a Dragonfly come to rest on the same twig? It didn’t make any sense. I said to my husband, “Honey, look at that – a Hummingbird and a Dragonfly are sitting together on that Trumpet Vine. Don’t you think that’s a bit unusual?” He was busy doing something super important, if I recall he was involved in a particularly challenging level on Candy Crush. He made an obligatory grunt but never really looked up to see what I was talking about.
The next afternoon, about the same time we were out on the patio, enjoying the late afternoon, waiting for the sunset to bring us a reprieve from the desiccating heat of the August days here in the Central Valley. I looked up, and there they were again. The Hummingbird and the Dragonfly were sitting on their respective perches, just like the day before. They sat there for sometime. Of course I started to worry that maybe there was something wrong with the Hummingbird. I had never really seen a Hummingbird sit for any length of time, they usually just flitted around, making their little Jetson car noises through the garden. But this Hummingbird was there, perched on his Trumpet Vine twig, enjoying the early summer evening. I mentioned this to my husband, who I think might still have been on the same level of Candy Crush. The comment in return wasn’t much more than a “Uh-huh.”
It became a ritual, watching for the Hummingbird and the Dragonfly that summer. Every afternoon, while sitting on the patio, as the skies slowly changed from insipid blues to the bright fiery corals, and the sun began its descent down the Western horizon, I would watch for that strange meeting, when the Hummingbird and the Dragonfly would take their respective spots on the Trumpet Vine twig. Again and again, they would meet. And every evening I would say to my husband “Look Honey, they are back again. Don’t you think that is strange?” Then the unusual, mind-boggling thing happened. The Candy Crush game no longer seemed important, the phone lay forgotten on the patio table, as we both waited for the two friends to meet, so they could take their spots on the Trumpet Vine, and watch the last rays of suns splatter a kaleidoscope of oranges and vermillion along the evening sky.
I have watched for them every summer since then, but they have never returned. I just watch my husband enjoying (not always – based on the nature of the expletives spewing forth) his Candy Crush game as the sun sets on another summer day.