Small black fine line tattoo of a hummingbird in flight on the inner wrist and forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Hummingbird in flight on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small tattoo of a hummingbird with outstretched wings and a long thin beak, shown in flight. The linework is fine and the body and wings are filled with dense stippled shading in black ink. The bird sits alone on pale skin, with the wrist and forearm running diagonally across the frame.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The feeder had frozen solid twice that week, so I was carrying the kettle out to the barn before breakfast, my breath going ahead of me like a dog that knows the way. Grandad Eli had hung the jar from the rafter above the stalls forty years back, the winter he swore a hummingbird had come over the hedge from nowhere, and nobody on the farm had believed him. I believed him by the second week of January, when the thing was still there, hovering at the rim of the jar with its needle beak, its wings a blur I could only see as a smudge against the dark air.

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Mum said it was lost and would be dead by Candlemas. Mr Pryce from the next holding said they went south in autumn or they didn't go at all. I didn't argue. I just warmed the water between my palms before I poured it, and I kept the barn door open a crack so the bird could come and go through the gap where the cold got in. It fed at first light and again at dusk, and in between it sat on the hay bale by the window, feathers ruffled dark as spilt ink.

On the last morning of the month the jar was full and the bale was empty. There was only a single feather on the sawdust, dark at the tip and shaded fine as pencil, as though someone had worked over it patiently with a very sharp point. I picked it up and it weighed nothing at all. I hung the jar back on its hook anyway, filled it to the brim with the warmest water I had, and left the door open a crack.

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