Hummingbird

Hummingbird don't fly away - B.B. King.

Mr. Samson was a stern old man. He was not crotchety, but he was not cheerful either. Mr. Samson was stern. He considered life to be far too serious to waste smiles on trivial matters and, as far as he was concerned, most things in life were trivial. This was the reason he was upset today and when stern old men are upset they are, by definition, crabby. He had wasted what he felt was an indulgent smile on a hummingbird of all things. Hummingbirds, he muttered to himself, are nervous little pissants and the little buggers are far too colourful to be considered anything but asinine.
He strode along the sidewalk, sternly observing the beautiful summer weather with a clinical air. The apple blossoms are fluttering to the ground, no doubt encouraged by the warm southerly breeze, he noted grimly. He stopped briefly to listen to the warbling notes of a mourning dove, merely out of scientific curiousity. Science, he reassured himself, is a serious matter.
Mr. Samson gave a polite but serious nod to a friendly, albeit overly-happy, passerby and continued on his way. Three small children, giggling and whooping, ran without any seeming purpose in a series of circles in the long grass of a large front lawn. Mr. Samson shook his head with what he thought was stern disapproval but actually appeared to be more wistful than condemnatory.
Children these days, he told himself, need more purpose and direction. They needed the sort of purpose and direction he himself had. He never went anywhere without a reason. Mr. Samson picked up his pace as he strode purposefully to . . . where? Mr. Samson faltered, what had been his purpose? He frowned deeply, unable to find the answer as his steps slowed. Why had he gone outside? He stopped completely as the answer dawned on him.
The hummingbird.