Risa Bear’s “Hummingbird” presents a dry garden where someone is watering parched plants. The speaker calls the garden’s tending Polyhymnia, the Muse of hymns and farmers, as if keeping seeds and soil alive is a kind of devotion. A female Anna’s hummingbird appears and perches nearby, watching the hose. When the water steadies toward a drooping eggplant or tomatillo, the bird darts into the cold spray, catches one rainbowed drop, then flits back to the fence shivering. For the gardener this seems like a game, but for the hummingbird it is far more serious: such a small, fast-burning creature cannot survive without water. The mood is attentive and tender, full of close observation and quiet concern. The glinting water is lovely, but the poem keeps returning to fragility—the bird’s tiny body and the garden’s need for rain.
Hummingbird — Summary
When Polyhymnia sends refracted light shimmering toward parched and shriveled roots, seeking some semblance of promise kept alive between her hands, her well, her seeds and soil,
A bit of fluff, a female Anna's, comes to perch nearby, cocking its tiny head and waiting. Waiting for the hose to steady its cold blast toward some fainting eggplant
or tomatillo, ready for a burst of aimed delight, catching one rainbowed drop of water short, then flitting to the fence again, shivering. To the Muse of hymns and farmers it's
a game, to the throbbing ball of feathers more. Its heart will stop without the gift of rain.