Summer is hanging on here in the Pacific Northwest, with highs in the 90s the past two weeks. That means my garden still blooms furiously, tomatoes and peppers ripen almost faster than I can pick them, and the birds and the bees twitter and buzz over all the floral bounty in their little kingdoms.

Stepping out on my back patio, you would think it all a peaceful, colorful paradise, but then a tiny bomber zings by your head, quickly followed by another, with furious, high-pitched squeaks accompanying them. For the past several months I’ve enjoyed spying a hummingbird or two browsing among the Cape fuschia and agastache, poking their needle-like beaks deep into the flowers to sip their nectar. The whir of their wings beating at an impossible rate usually alerts me to their presence, and I watch for a few moments before, with a zip, they whir off to another garden.

However, these past few weeks, as the days shorten and the nights cool even as the days remain summer-hot, I’ve noticed that the drowsy peace has given way to what my husband and I refer to as the hummingbird wars. Where formerly the two or three that seem to regularly inhabit the backyard coexisted tranquilly among the bounty of blooms, now it appears a ferocious territorial instinct has kicked in with a vengeance. Perhaps some innate sense that soon cold temperatures and little food will be the order of the day has them in a tizzy whenever a competitor enters each one’s perceived space.

I find myself highly entertained by the aerial maneuvers and indignant posturing of these tiny aviators as they try to fend each other off a prized patch of flowers or a favorite perch. As one hovers around a bloom, suddenly another dive bombs from above, and next the two are whirling straight up like helicopters, facing off and squawking-squeaking-screeching furiously at each other before zipping over the fence and out of sight. But wait; within seconds they come screaming back from another direction like a pair of fighter jets performing in an airshow, darting up and down and impossibly changing direction on a dime. I’ve watched them go at it like this for over half an hour, with the occasional timeout when both birds seem to tacitly agree that they must pause to take in some sustenance from a few blooms to refuel. They then may “dine” close to each other and perch within inches of each other as they muster their reserves before going at it again.

I’m never sure who wins or what finally ceases the battle, but I will enjoy the performances until summer finally relinquishes its territory to fall.

— Patty Vanikiotis, associate editor/copy editor