Tag Archives: hummingbird


by Ethel Mortenson Davis

Larger than the rest,
a hummingbird came
to show me
how strong he’s become.

He sat on an almond branch
next to the sprinkler
taking a morning bath.

Two weeks ago
we saw
a baby hummingbird
barely clinging
to the feeder
while others pushed
him to the ground.

in the morning light,
he’s come to show me
he’s ready to make
the great journey
across the Continental Divide,

towards South America.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

A Blur of Wings

a photograph by Ethel Mortenson Davis


Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Photography


by Ethel Mortenson Davis

A hummingbird came
to the garden at sunrise,
close to my left shoulder,
then my face—a female Black-Chin.

She came for the sparkling droplets
glistening from my sprinkler—

a morning bath
in a parched land.

She presented her gift
as she took mine.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry

Calliope Hummingbird and Circles

a pastel and poem by Ethel Mortenson Davis


When I drive
through the desert,
I keep the windows rolled down
and usually hear a few notes
from the meadow lark.
New Mexico is full of bird life.

This morning, after last night’s shower,
I heard the clicks
of the Rufus hummingbird
through my car’s open window-
a metallic pinging sound-
like electric highline wires make
when you stand under them.

The hummingbird kisses
the delicate circuits
of the eco-systems.

In the north
the snowmobiles run
the gray wolf to exhaustion.
Once the gray wolf
was chased with dog sleds
or snow-shoes
and had a chance
to escape.

The wolf bites at his body
where the bullet enters,
shattering his flesh and bone,
shattering the delicate circles of life.


Filed under Art, Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry


by Ethel Mortenson Davis

On my walk
this morning
I reached down to pick
a sacred-colored blossom,
but hummingbird flew out!

I’ll leave this table
for you.


Filed under Ethel Mortenson Davis, Poetry