We were visiting from L.A., my friend Chris and I. We sat on the covered wood porch, nursing our bottles of beer with his uncles Mike and Johnnie. It was a quiet afternoon in the quiet town of Beaver Springs, Pennsylvania. The porch, belonging to Uncle Mike, who had built himself the A-frame house it was attached to, overlooked a pastoral, peanut-shaped lake. I noticed the hummingbird feeders — I counted seven total — hanging from a dead, sun-bleached tree looming on the bank.

“What’s up ...