Colibrita

As a niña, nature was my companion. I was nicknamed la colibrita—“little hummingbird”—for I loved to sing-song in the orchards. There, the crops were my siblings—the insects, my audience.

So when the bees died, I was the first to know. The farmlands fell silent. My hums lacked their usual backup chorus. Suddenly, I was the only bug buzzing.

I still remember the sound of mamá’s sobbing—the smell of tortillas scorching on the stove—when the broadcast aired.

Papá’d rushed to la cocina, spanking a rag at the smoke detector.

“Maldita sea, Mariluisa, flip the tortillas!”

But he, too, fell mute at the news.

This was when the silence truly began: the sound of devastation—of fear.

At six, I barely grasped what the extinction meant for my family—what it meant for the Earth. No bees meant no crops—no food.

“Will you have work?” I asked papá.

Papá looked at me—eyes saddened—and smiled.

“Promise me something, mija—that you'll never stop humming.”

I promised. Then, like a colibrita, I hummed off to play.

Meanwhile, the gringos—who worshipped vain heroes like Batman—had created a “solution”: the pollination drones, which formed onyx clouds in the skies.

But nature, my friend—tired of being mistreated and insulted—outlashed, manipulating the robotitos.

Humanity'd never seen villains born from Earth's fury. Now, years of neglect spawned environmental demons: spiteful, charred forests, cyclone hurricanes, and raging, seismic hellions that battered the ground.

But amid the planet's revenge, I remembered my promise.

As I hummed, my voice became the vibration that soothed Earth's tantrums—my breath the molecules that mended her ozone. Spinning in circles moderated the climate—re-crystalizing glaciers...de-escalating seas.

Soon, I made headlines: This SuperHeroine Siphons Earth's Elements—AND Heals Them!

(And papá—he was proud.)

Mi nombre es Colibrita—with my hum, I recreated the bees.

What environmental emergency do you believe I’ll fix next?