It started out daintily enough and turned into sybaritic debauch. In other words, it was my kind of party.
There I was, watering the flowers. A fine spray of mist arched out onto the drooping fern, soaking the flowering oxalis. Suddenly my daydreams were interrupted by the arrival of a hummingbird in search of ablutions and watersport.
First he zipped jauntily through the droplets, getting a nice soak. He perched for a moment on the fern frond, luxuriating in his spa treatment. Mesmerized, I kept the hose trained in the same spot, afraid to break the spell.
Then my frolicsome guest got downright bold, dashing through the spray several more times before dropping to the watersoaked wooden wall of one of the raised beds. There he made a spectacle of himself, lasciviously rubbing his wings and belly in the moisture, stopping his decadent rollings around only to take inebriated little sideways sips, like a drunk laying in a shallow puddle of champagne.
When it was over he left without making a big production of it. He offered no apologies or excuses and didn’t say he’d call soon. He simply righted himself, shook, and flew off.
So when you see me standing for hours in front of the raised beds, hose in hand, you’ll know what I’m up to. Just looking for another party.