I buried a hummingbird this morning. He was lying in the grass near my kitchen door. I picked him up. It was the first time I ever held a hummingbird. He was so light: if I had looked away I wouldn’t have known that anything was in my hand. His iridescent neck feathers shown red violet in patches around his neck. His eyes were an empty grey. He seemed perfect except for two patches of missing feathers on his back. I got the shovel and dug a shallow hole for him and covered him.

Burying former living things is part of life in the country. It happens often. Sometimes a rabbit, sometimes a mole, a mouse, a bird or a butterfly. Sometimes a beloved dog.

I am grateful when I find an intact body because just as often I find parts that must be buried. Very early one morning my Brittany spaniel, Annie, came in her dog door and proudly deposited something on the bedroom carpet. In the predawn light I thought it was a banana peel. When I got up to see what it was I was horrified by a pair of rabbit ears.

Yet there have been times when I have been a rescuer rather than an undertaker. Several years ago I went out the back door and noticed that a hummingbird was feeding low to the ground on the nasturtiums. A few minutes later I walked by again and a loud “beep, beep” caught my attention. The cat was sitting in the middle of the yard. The “beep, beep” came from her. But no, it was coming from the hummingbird in her mouth. I knew if I yelled at the cat she would just run away so I crept very slowly over to her and knelt down beside her. I reached out to her and caught her jaw between my fingers and she opened her mouth. I felt a rush of air. I never saw the hummingbird.

Incredibly the same thing happened again in the same way a few years later.