The Summer the Hummingbird Stayed

There it was again—a quick, metallic click outside the window.

Faint, but unmistakable. Almost like the tap of a tiny fingernail against glass. Every time I heard it, I knew—my tiny visitor had arrived.For weeks in the early spring, that gentle sound welcomed me each morning. A soft rhythm of wings and chirps outside our window. He’d perch in the tree just above our feeder—his favorite breakfast spot.

He was a male Anna’s Hummingbird, shimmering green with a crown that caught the morning sun in flashes of rose. I wouldn’t have known that for sure if it weren’t for our Cabay smart hummingbird feeder, which captured a perfect close-up the first morning it went up.

At first, I thought I’d just enjoy the camera for fun—maybe grab a few pictures. But it became so much more. The app on my phone showed me exactly who was visiting, even when I wasn’t looking. With built-in AI bird ID, I learned his name before I knew his story. The solar panel meant I never had to recharge it. And somehow, this blend of smart tech and backyard quiet brought me even closer to the little lives we share space with.

We live in a regular neighborhood. Hedges, sidewalks, stucco walls. But when he arrived, I started to see our yard differently. His presence meant something: that we’d made space for life. The flowers, the tree, the Cabay feeder hanging gently beneath it—it all played a part. A small but working ecosystem. “Where AI meets nature,” the brand says. I get that now.

I hadn’t always noticed hummingbirds. It wasn’t until we started planting native flowers—like California fuchsia and hummingbird sage—that I began to slow down. To pay attention. One morning, while checking on the garden, I heard a soft flutter mixed with tiny high-pitched notes. When I looked up, he was there, suspended mid-air, sipping from the blossoms.

That sound stayed with me. A low buzz from his wings, accented by chirps that sounded half-digital, half-wild. And once I noticed it, I started hearing more. The Cabay feeder's motion alerts helped, too—I started getting video clips of visits I would’ve otherwise missed. It was like hearing a new language for the first time, then slowly learning to speak it.

Hummingbirds are native only to the Americas, but their mystery is universal. Indigenous stories tell of them punching holes in the sky to create stars. And still, today, many people don’t understand them. A neighbor once admitted she was scared of their sharp beaks. But hummingbirds are gentle, careful, busy. What looks like a sword is really just a straw for nectar—and a tool for survival. Through the lens of that tiny 2K camera, I’ve seen their delicacy up close.

Just a few blocks away, there’s a mural showing all the birds that call this neighborhood home. My daughter stopped one day and said, “That one looks like the one from our feeder!” And she was right. When you see something enough times, in enough detail, it starts to become part of your memory.

By early summer, my early-morning visitor disappeared. Maybe he found a mate, or a new perch. But I like to think our little garden—and yes, the Cabay feeder—gave him a reason to stay as long as he did. Since then, I’ve seen plenty of others. Sometimes in pairs, sometimes in bursts. Each clip the feeder records is like a memory in motion—one I can replay, even after the wings have vanished.

A few weekends ago, we were walking to the farmer’s market when five hummingbirds zipped across a neighbor’s coral tree. I’ve never seen them move as a group before. My daughter reached for my hand and whispered, “Look, Mom.” It felt like a gift.

These little messengers come and go. But with tools like Cabay, I feel like I’m part of their story now. Our backyard isn’t just a place to pass through—it’s a place to remember.