Small coloured tattoo of a green and teal hummingbird with a pink throat in flight on the inner forearm of a person wearing a grey top.

Hummingbird on a forearm

Forearm · Colour · Photo

A small hummingbird in mid-flight, with wings raised and a long thin beak, is tattooed on the underside of a forearm. The bird is shaded in soft greens and teals with touches of pink at the throat, and the feathers are blended rather than outlined. The plain skin and grey clothing behind keep the focus on the bird, which sits towards the wrist.

Forearm Hummingbird Bird

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The gale had dropped by breakfast, but the fuchsia hedge at Trewin House was still shaking when Edith Tremayne found the bird. It hung in the air outside the scullery window, wings a blur, beak angled at the glass as if it had a complaint to make. Nobody in Porthkerris had seen anything like it. Gulls, yes. Swallows, in summer. This was a thing that belonged in a painted tin box in somebody's aunt's front room.

Keep reading

She filled a saucer with sugar water, the way her mother had done for the robins, and set it on the garden wall. The bird came down in short green bursts and drank with its tongue, then lifted back to the window and looked at her. Alfie Roskilly, who had been lodging since Easter and mended everyone's clocks in lieu of rent, came out in his stockinged feet to see what the fuss was. 'Hummingbird,' he said. 'Florida, maybe. Or somewhere hotter. Blown across the Atlantic like a seed.' He spoke as if he had been there himself.

For three days it stayed. It drank from the saucer at six every morning and perched on the washing line in the afternoons, throat flashing pink whenever the sun caught it. Guests came down to the wall in their dressing gowns and held their breath. Edith stopped minding the empty bedrooms. On the fourth morning the wind swung round to the west, the saucer was still full to the brim, and the hedge was bare.

Alfie found her at the scullery sink with her hands in cold water. He didn't say anything. On the sill beside the saucer lay one green feather, fine as a hair from a paintbrush. Edith dried it on a tea towel, slid it into the rent book between the pages for August, and went to light the range, because the lodgers would want their breakfast whether or not anything had flown away.