Fine line hummingbird tattoo in green, red and orange on the upper chest near the collarbone, with a floral strap visible.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Hummingbird tattoo on the upper chest

Fine line · Chest · Colour · Photo

A hummingbird in mid-flight faces left, with a long slender beak, outstretched green wings and a red-orange tail. The linework is delicate and fine, with soft, tonal shading and small patterned details across the body and wing. The colour is mainly green, red and orange on pale skin, and the bird sits diagonally across the upper chest beside the collarbone, with the rest of the frame showing a floral sundress strap and bare shoulders.

Fine line Chest Hummingbird Bird Wing

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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

Sit closer, the lot of you, and mind the cold that comes down off the pass. My grandmother told this one, and her grandmother told it to her, so it has been walked over more times than any road in these hills.

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Up at the Kiriwa Saddle, where the snow stays until June, there were two villages that would not speak. One sat on the wet side, with its bells and its quarrels. The other sat on the dry side, with its goats and its grudges. Between them lay a day of loose scree, and nobody crossed it but the wind and the bad-tempered eagles.

Then a girl from the wet side, Aldana Forre, fell in love with a goat-boy from the dry side, and she had no way to tell him. Letters froze in the saddle. Men who tried the climb came back with frost on their eyebrows and sour faces. So she went up to the old stone hut where the weather used to be kept and asked the hummingbird that lived in the rhododendrons there to carry a word for her.

The bird laughed at her, the way they do, with that high ticking sound, and then it looked at the red ribbon in her hair and agreed. It took her word in its long thin beak, which was the only thing small enough to hold it, and it flew the pass in a single morning, wings going like a struck match. At dusk it came back to the lintel of the hut and dropped one scarlet feather into her palm, and it did not say a word. The feather was still warm. I am told the goat-boy was already climbing toward the snow that same night, with a ribbon of his own tied to his crook.