Hummingbird with long tail on ribs

The bird came back on Tuesday, the same as it has every morning since the frost broke, and I have finally stopped pretending it is a coincidence. It hangs in the air outside the scullery window with its wings held out like a pair of tongs opening, and its tail trails below it, long and green as a bamboo stem. Mr Okonedo next door swears it is a different bird each time. I told him that was nonsense, but I have started leaving the sash up an inch.

I have been trying to paint it. Every evening I sit with the watercolours and try to get the orange to bleed into the pink along the leading edge of the wing, and every evening the pigment sinks wrong and I am left with a muddy bruise. Father used to say the hummingbird is the only bird that paints itself as it goes, flicking colour out of the air. I took that for one of his jokes. Last week, when I rinsed my brush, the water in the jar turned the exact violet of the speckles the bird leaves on the glass, little dots like spilt ink, and I stood at the sink for a full minute.

Yesterday it did not come. I waited with my tea going cold until the light turned grey over the allotments, and then something tapped twice on the outside of the pane. When I looked, there was only a long green feather caught in the putty, bright as a new leaf. I have pinned it above the easel. Come at Easter, and bring your good brushes.

Love, Min