It was a different kind of morning. The air was cooler, breezier, overcast.
I took my cup of coffee and my camera outside, knowing it was the last day I would get to observe hummingbirds before leaving for Wisconsin.
I first spotted The King, our resident male ruby-throated hummingbird, high on his perch, fluffed up and pensive. A short time later, after warning off a visitor, he dropped down to the holly as he is prone to do when it’s windy. He sat there quietly plumped up for a long while in the dim morning light.
A Carolina wren, who also likes this perch, displaced him for a short time, but since this busy songster can never be still, he was soon gone and The King returned.
When I next observed, an hour or so later, the stillness was palpable. I can’t explain how I knew, but I knew. He was gone. I looked for him at his perches, watched for any movement among the limbs, waited for the faintest sound of chirping from above. Nothing. Then the parade of visitors came, among them the young and inexperienced, the late fledglings.
If I needed any confirmation, I had it. They approached the feeder chirping, awkwardly stabbing for a drink, lingering for many tries, more than I had observed before. No King pounced on them or chased them away.
Were it not for the heartening comedy put on by this new generation, I might have slumped into dispair. They reminded me of an infant first discovering his hands, eager to use them, but not quite skilled enough to know how. Much the same, they approached the feeder from every angle, awkwardly missing, backing up, trying again. Endearing, especially knowing all they must master before they, too, begin their southward journey.
Fall migration. It is that wonderful, stirring time of year. The King has departed. I so wish him a safe and speedy journey. I wish this for them all.
When I next observed, an hour or so later, the stillness was palpable. I can’t explain how I knew, but I knew. He was gone. I looked for him at his perches, watched for any movement among the limbs, waited for the faintest sound of chirping from above. Nothing. Then the parade of visitors came, among them the young and inexperienced, the late fledglings.
Sometimes he could care less about my presence. Other times, he chirps and zips to the other side of the feeder, or even switches to a different feeder out of range. Today I got some lucky shots. 
Don't you just love those irridescent feathers?
And the tuffs of white poking out from beneath his belly?
I set out to observe today and confirm he was still around. I'm curious about when he will begin 
but I don't know when the resident males generally leave their breeding territories in east Tennessee. Our male is still on territory, challenging migrant visitors. But he’s also slowing down a bit, away from the feeder more and, hopefully, fattening up on insects.
And below, a petite visitor...
According to Robert Sargent, in his book, Ruby-throated Hummingbird, hummers binge to put on weight prior to migration, gaining from their normal .1 to .12 ounce weight to .19 to .22 ounces. “Just an additional .07 ounce of fat likely gives them enough fuel for their transgulf migration—under normal conditions, a nonstop journey of 18 to 22 hours without feeding."
Amazing numbers. It’s no wonder we are so fascinated with these tiniest of birds.
But I can say that a deeper look, pulls at the heart strings. It's enough to wonder if The King will survive his daily challenges, as well as a long migration to Central or South America. I hope so. There will be lots of hardy genes passed on to the next generation.
But the fledglings are another heart-string matter. Their survival depends on their ability to quickly learn the skills of maneuvering to catch insects and navigate nectar sources while escaping combat. 
This little soul tugged at my heart this morning. A beauty in the making, it's clear life has not been easy thus far.
He still salutes me at the feeder with a blur.
As the smallest bird in the world, it makes sense that hummingbird personalities would be fired with spirit and tenacity. Watching migrant visitors line the tree limbs around the feeder in plain sight and the King executing his precision U-shaped dives despite being sorely out-numbered, I am in awe of his heart and perseverence. He leaves no doubt--he is The King.
But on chance occasions, when he is otherwise occupied, a visitor gets to linger at the feeder, and when this happens, some amusing antics emerge in this serious business of hummingbird feeding.
Above, after a lingering drink during which he sipped from each blossom, this visitor perched facing the glass as if to conceal himself..."Shhhh! I'm invisible."
But not for long. The King on his perch, looking very kingly.
The atmosphere around the feeder is changing, quietly, barely discernable, but the King is not so vigilant or aggressive. I see him at his perch and he does exert his dominance but not with the same kind of fury. 
Visitors get to feed longer. Juveniles and females can sneak in for a drink while the males are displaying and circling, sometimes three at once. I even saw one juvenile duck under the limb of a holly to avoid detection. It didn’t work.
In his book, The Ruby-throated Hummingbird, Robert Sargent says hummingbirds have very keen eye-sight and hearing and the buzz of wings agitates the male into action. 
This becomes all the more frustrating when I've been able to capture satisfying images of some of the juvenile and female visitors that have managed to sneak a drink from the feeder.
But the male has no time to linger. He is ever vigilant, moving up and down, scanning between drinks.
Yesterday morning while he was peacefully preening high on his perch, another male challenged him. 
I caught this other-worldly image below as the intruder flashed him a second time before departing.
Our scrappy king never even left his perch.
with time to preen... 
I'm content again. 
In his book, 
If you look closely at the first photo, you will see missing feathers, loose tuffs of down and a scruffy rather than sleek, preened appearance—the rigors of pursuits. He begins his day in the pre-dawn light, emitting territorial chirps and paying several early visits to the feeder. I hope to have more photos soon and maybe a few of others passing through. Its mid-July. Early nesters from more northern states are beginning their migration now. I wonder how my tiny neighbor can be any more vigilant.
