"I won't be home for dinner, honey."
It was a windy day in San Francisco, and my hair blew into my face, whipping me with tiny little needles across my nose. I stood with my arms out on Deadman's Point above China Beach, taking in the force of the wind as it blew over the ocean.
Then I saw a hummingbird. He darted out of a flowering bush and was immediately blown back toward Oakland on a huge gale of wind. I last saw him, a tiny little pinprick, sailing over the Golden Gate Bridge.
I hoped his wife would understand when he didn't come home for dinner.