Movement and Stillness

We saw a doe and a fawn slowly emerging from the cornfield the other night on our bike ride: watchful and beautiful; tentative and somehow poised at the same time. They stopped to look at us and we stopped to look at them. After a few moments and a little encouragement from us, the two deer bounded up toward the road. A car came from around the corner, and the two deer ran back toward the bike path and cornfield (A tricky thing: what is a road to a deer? What is a car?), then turned again and crossed the road, away from us and safely into the thick understory of a grove of trees.

Running and standing still are the two tools at their disposal to deal with the problem of how to respond to something they don’t recognize or understand. A small set of sharp tools, carefully honed, they complement each other nicely. Stillness lets them accurately observe movements of other animals (bicyclists, and motorists in this case). Quick acceleration and remarkable speed and agility leave potential predators behind.

Hummingbirds are magnificent examples of this in the extreme: they can suspend themselves perfectly in place, then fly across the yard like a dark green, feathery bullet. They occasionally stop to consider us as we work in the yard or stand looking about. They are curious, not really knowing what to make of us. 

I am curious, too; marveling at them. The tips of their wings moving impossibly fast; the tip of their beaks impossibly still. Both of us quiet for a few moments until something sets us in motion again. For the hummingbird: the business of drinking nectar, perhaps. For me: the departure of the hummingbird.

Movement, stillness, movement. Repeat.