Fine line black hummingbird tattoo in flight on the inner wrist and forearm of a person's arm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Hummingbird in flight on a wrist

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A small hummingbird in side profile, drawn as a single thin outline with its long beak, wing and tail shown in flight. The linework is fine and even, and the bird is simple with no shading inside the outline. The tattoo is in black ink on pale skin, placed near the wrist with plain dark fabric behind the arm.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The glasshouse at Harrowby Hall had been built to keep alive things that had no business in Yorkshire, and by the third week of frost the hummingbird was the only one still flying. Nell had been sent up with the coal scuttle and came down with the door left open, which was the first thing she would confess to Mrs Pell and the last thing anyone asked her about.

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She followed it past the kitchen garden and into the wood that edged Coldharbour, where the birches stood grey as old pewter and the holly held its red like something it had forgotten to give back. The bird hung over a bramble hedge, wings stitched into a blur she could not hope to copy. She dug a stub of charcoal from her apron pocket, tore a strip from the back of the seed catalogue, and tried to hold the creature still in her head.

It would not stay. Each time she looked up it had shifted, a new angle of beak and throat, so she stopped looking and drew by feel instead, one stroke without lifting the charcoal: the needle beak, the rounded back, the wing swept long and sharp as a split leaf, the tail tapering off like a thread let fall. When she finally lifted her hand the bird had gone, and the paper held nothing but a single unbroken line.

Mrs Pell pinned that drawing above the range and said it was the only honest thing ever sent up from the wood. The glasshouse was mended by February and the other birds stayed put. Nell kept the scrap in her Sunday boots, and sometimes at dusk she went to the edge of the trees and waited, charcoal ready, for something small and quick to come back and be caught.

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