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  • Tiny bodies zip through the air, iridescent bullets, wings buzzing like the drone of a miniature helicopter. Such delicate creatures; hearts beating always so rapidly, their tiny feet thinner then toothpicks. One recoils, thinking how easily one could be crushed in a single palm. Yet they are waging war. Hovering, diving in for a strike, swooping up into the shelter of the pine branches.Their shrill cries can only be heard by one who listens. The cool air is coming in. The flowers are wilting. They depend on the kind handouts of people to survive. For this, they fight.

    There are four stations at the feeder for the birds to perch and drink their share. Yet for reasons I can't understand, they will not share. Finding the feeder empty, one will claim a perch, lightly, cautiously, wings fluttering. They drink, look around, drink, look, drink, look. Another one hovers near, looking for an opening. The first will feel threatened, chase the other away. Another will take the opportunity and the first one's place. It is a rare occurrence that two will make peace and drink together; yet still they glance at each other and flutter their wings aggressively. In the wild, even the sweetest little creatures have the fighter in them. They need too. Nature can be brutal, and to get by, you need to be tough.
    Okay, I lied. I can understand why they will not share. But with the lake glittering, sun shining, leaves rustling, it's hard to imagine that even here, angels must fight for just one drink.
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