What a great word. In Canada it's an excuse for accidentally smoking crack. "I was in one of my drunken torpors."
I don't know if or when Frontyard Anna's Hummie is officially torpid, but on these unusually cold days she spends lengths of time hunkered down in the Pieris bush, a short flight from the sugar-water. You can walk right up and stare at her with an eyeball half her size and she doesn't flinch. But she isn't there after sunset, suggesting a separate nighttime Fortress of Torpitude.
I take the feeder inside after dark, because lately the syrup it has been freezing solid overnight. I put it back out at first light, and she's already there in the bush, chipping, peevish. That's the hummie way: when not torpid, peevish.