Chip is the alpha male of a little band of two or three Anna's Hummingbirds spending the winter with us. There is not an iota of kindness or civility among them.
|Watching over his shoulder. He's a nervous wreck.|
This is not pretty but it's the way things work in nature.
I still love the little guy.
I hope he'll survive till spring and sow some wild oats.
Chip is the first life I see in the gray gloom of morning and the last I see in the evening, as we descend into another long night.
|We see the enemy.|
He ascended 200 feet straight up, disappeared from view, then reappeared with a loud outburst of "chipping."
By then he had boxed the other bird tightly into a shrub and was hovering inches from its face with a menacing display of magenta feathers.
Still, despite Chip's hostility, the interloper did get to the feeder for a drink.
|At the feeder, dripping wet, on a snowy-and-rainy morning.|
This made me happy. There is plenty of juice for everyone.
We should all share in this season of goodwill.