High atop the forest the Bird King sits. He watches. He waits. He’s poised to strike. As soon as the enemy enters his territory, he will launch himself like an arrow. He has determination. And oh yes, he has speed. Beware. He is the Bird King. He is the mighty hummingbird.

Not long ago the emerald ash borer killed off a small stand of ash trees that was part of the woods outside my window. As the trees died, one by one I watched them lose their leaves and become stark rooted logs until the inevitable strong wind toppled them, clearing a space for the light. All but one, that is, which for the past two years has proudly occupied the gap as the last remaining relative, a reminder that the woods is a place of contrasts. The stark and the lush mingle together without comment or consideration.

It’s not unusual for birds to perch on that dead tree. It’s the perfect spot if you want to take stock of the world. Lately, every morning I’ve been watching its most recent occupier, a bold male hummingbird who uses it as a kind of tower or outpost. Through my binoculars I can see him surveying his kingdom, looking all around him in a curious way. He launches sorties at what, I don’t know. Bugs maybe? Whatever it is is either too small for me to see or it’s lurking just off camera in the stand of trees on the periphery of the open space. His battle won, he returns to his twig and the whole thing starts all over again.

I must say I feel quite honored to have him in my neighborhood. He’s one hell of a bird. Probably no more than 3 inches high, he’s occupied the most conspicuous roost for longer than any other bird I’ve ever known. Robins, jays, crows, the great crested flycatcher–all so much bigger than this little thing with the ruby red bib–all have made a play for the tree, but they don’t use it long. This guy, every morning of every day he’s up there, commanding his post.

He reminds me that you’ve just got to do what you’ve been born to do. Claim your tree. Launch yourself into the wide world. Don’t keep us from the great gift that is you. Even if you’re the smallest thing flying in a forest of warblers, woodpeckers, and whip-poor-wills. After all, the hummingbird teaches us that in the end size doesn’t matter.

Freud be damned. Be your bird.