Rufous Feathercandle

Selasphorus rufus meets Rubus spectabilis

Mar 20, 2026

Rufous hummingbird, male, a single mimicking gnat and Salmonberry blossoms.

A Rufous feathercandle appeared from out of nowhere yesterday, a flickering, darting, wickless flame of humming energy, intent on a locally sourced meal of Salmonberry nectar and tasty gnats. But Brett and I, without really noticing, had posted up right beside the thickest patch of blooming Salmonberry for at least a quarter mile in any direction and were completely lost in our first face to face conversation in more than twenty five, life-filled years.

A quarter century is an impossibly long time to have gone without seeing or speaking to someone I adore as deeply as I have always adored Brett, so there was pretty big energy in the air surrounding us and no shortage of reminiscent laughter, but nothing about all that seemed the least bit problematic to this tiny little male hummingbird, newly returned from Mexico, who had adroitly sampled from several of the rain-damp flowers nearby and then taken a seat at eye level, maybe three or four feet away.

“Hey guys.”

So then there were three of us, two, taking a break from our catching up stories, to shoot wide-eyed, ‘can you freaking believe this’ grins back and forth, feeling profoundly honored to have such a normally feisty, little Rufous troubadour settle so calmly beside us, and of course, the little scamp, himself, seeming utterly and completely at ease, a calming lick of sassy, red-orange flame.

He did not congratulate us or speak to us in strange, prophetic riddles. He did not sprinkle fairy-dust in our hair and eyes (at least as far as I could tell) …and he stayed for barely a minute, but it still felt like an amazing, little gift for a couple of reconnecting old friends, and maybe even a sign.

Funny things, signs… the ways they seem to show up when no one is expecting them. The ways they can profoundly change the tenor of an unfolding day.

After a couple of rainy miles through woods and marsh, and more stories over lunch at a nearby pub, my friend and I were full to brimming with forgiveness and fascination, and new understandings …and gratitude, but we were both emotionally exhausted, as well. So we hugged for a while and parted, promising to get together again, soon. Meaning every word.

And then, not quite yet ready for an hour and a half drive home in afternoon traffic, I headed back out to that rainy patch of Salmonberry, a half mile beyond the trailhead, needing a bit more time in chill, damp air, surrounded by marsh smell and birdsong.

I had a feeling I might run into that little Rufous again if I was patient, had been so taken with his calm demeanor and fiery cloak, earlier but had attempted no pictures, not wanting to cheapen the moment.

I turned on my camera, pulled up the hood on my rain shell and hunkered down for a long, rainy wait. There was absolutely no hurry.

More than an hour passed. Two, brief, peripheral sightings but no pictures. I was cold and getting a little restless, needed to pee, needed to move. So I walked a few hundred yards, studying everything, listening to the distant chatter of flickers and butterbutts, and the whistling of duck wings through the air above me. In the near distance, at the edge of the woods an old hay barn, and perched at the end of its weathered hayrack, a solitary Kestrel (Falco sparverius), considering the current state of the world. I recognized the gift of this contemplative composition almost immediately, framed it up and quickly squeezed off half a dozen exposures before this littlest of falcons flew.

I returned to the Salmonberry patch and hunkered down, yet again. Fifteen minutes. I could give it fifteen more minutes before I really needed to start driving to beat the worst of rush hour traffic back in the city.

Chickadees and Robins. A pair of Bewick’s Wrens. No hummingbird.

Sixteen minutes. Then seventeen. You’re gonna need to get going, Davey.

“Uhhh, listen Mr. Rufous,” I dialed up my courage then, “yeah, if you’re out there perched on some little branch watching me, wondering what the hell my deal is and wishing I’d leave, I’m almost out of time. You were so very kind this morning, zipping in and joining Brett and me here. It meant the world to me. To him. I was trying to be fully present to the moment when you showed, not wanting to let a stupid camera to get in the way of things, so I didn’t even try to make your portrait while you settled in and sat there, just a few feet away. I just wanted to take it all in.

But as you can see, I came back. I hoped for a little bit more time with you and just had a feeling. Most of my encounters with your fiery relatives have seemed so erratic and fitful, even within the familiar spaces of my garden back home. You seem different. Calmer and less aggressive. And so I thought maybe you’d be willing to show yourself again and maybe have your portrait taken. I know this might not be cool to ask and you certainly don’t owe me a thing, but I did want to circle back, to thank you for your calm and trust, earlier and, well, see if maybe you’d be interested in making a picture together, one on one. I’ve got another minute or two, if you’re game.”

I looked at my phone to check the time. Thirty seconds passed. And then a minute.

And then, just as I was dabbing the accumulated raindrops off my camera before sliding it safely back under my rain shell, this brilliant, little featherflame flew in from high, stage right, stopping at a few select Salmonberry blossoms for arched-necked sips, then zipped center stage, turned a quarter left and hovered perfectly there, unmoving beneath an exquisite, half-dozen, magenta blooms …just long enough for me to find focus and fire off a dozen magical frames, every one of them, sharp.