Nothing Happens Again

So I'm sitting on the porch talking to Pete who just closed on his house and Leon is inside packing his stuff in a kind of a panic because he isn't going to be done before his ride shows up with the truck and I'm telling Pete that I feel a little bit sad but mostly just anxious and then suddenly a hummingbird flies up and I say oh my god there's a hummingbird.

It's a female, I think, because she has a very soft brown color with no iridescence.  For a moment, she hovers by the morning glories, and then, suddenly, she shoots directly toward me, stopping, midair, about four inches from my face. She lingers there.  In her eyes I see what it's like to own yourself completely, without apology or distress, to have dominion of the space around you.  Her gaze confers a blessing, an affirmation ofsome kind.  And then she zips away, not in an erratic hummingbird dart but in a purposeful, elegant exit that says, "get on with it."  

So, I look up in my animal totems book and it say that hummingbirds are about bringing joy back into your life and could be about creating joyful design and Pete say "that's a good omen" and I am spellbound by the idea that a hummingbird could exist in the alley behind Kalorama Road and immediately I want to go buy a hummingbird feeder so I can have that thing happen again. So I can have more.  But nothing happens again.  The present moment does not return.