It seems as though we’re constantly making sugar water for the hummingbirds that visit our backyard. They really enjoy our feeders this time of the year. We have six of them set out right now and they can drain them all in a day. It’ll be that way throughout the summer, which pleases me. I enjoy watching them zip back and forth, in and out, even upside down, jockeying for position.
Here, in a shocking defiance of standard avian physics, two female hummingbirds managed to approach the feeder at the exact same time without immediately triggering a miniature war. It was a masterclass in passive-aggressive hospitality, resembling two polite Canadians accidentally meeting at a supermarket sample cart. They hovered side-by-side with rigid precision, their wings humming an anxious, high-pitched truce while they took turns dipping their beaks into adjacent metal flowers. Each lady kept one tiny, unblinking eye locked onto the other, blinking at a frequency that clearly communicated a desire to stab, yet choosing the path of détente instead. It was an uneasy peace treaty signed entirely in the language of stiff tail feathers and overly polite, micro-adjusted perching positions.
The sheer awkwardness of this rare, cordial happy hour was highly entertaining, as both birds seemed acutely aware of how much they were ruining their fierce reputations. They sipped their sugar water with the tense, overly performative etiquette of bitter rivals forced to share a table at a wedding. One would lift her head, offer a tiny, strained chirp that sounded suspiciously like a forced compliment about the other’s plumage, and wait while her companion took a polite, measured gulp. They managed to remain at the feeder for a full two minutes without a single mid-air body slam or high-speed pursuit around the patio, ultimately parting ways with a synchronized, dignified zip into the sky that screamed, “We will never speak of this compromise again.”
