THE METROPLEX, TEXAS — The moon, ahead of me in the west, appeared translucent, as if the blue sky behind showed through the thin spots. The sun rose directly behind me, an enormous orange disk, and I flipped my mirror to protect my eyes. Rock Pigeons, Great-tailed Grackles, and starlings filled the void between the two great lights, and I finally decided I had better pay more attention to the madly rushing traffic.

Today was my first day at the office, and I wanted to be on time. I arrived in the parking lot as Pachelbel’s Canon came on the radio. I listened for a moment, watching Rock Pigeons coast overhead. Then I got out of the car and headed for the imposing building. I noticed a bronze bird atop the edifice — an eagle, I suppose. Inside, marble floors, sweeping staircase … and Suite 1031 dark and locked.

Great. So I sat to wait, and when a father and his son departed through the huge front door, I heard a mockingbird singing. A fragment of sanity.

Finally, someone came to open the office. I was temporarily assigned to a cubicle that was supposed to be empty for another day. It didn’t have a chair. Then the young man showed up to claim his space. So I moved. And the new cubicle had two chairs. I tripped over them for the rest of the day.

During lunch break, I got in my car to do a little exploring. There is a city park right across the street, and I could walk over in the future, now that I know. It seemed to be an expanse of crispy brown grass, scattered with a few mesquite trees. With a temperature that must have been almost 90, I was not inclined to get out and walk. But a little more driving revealed other parts of the park, including a few young sweetgums with beautiful red leaves.

I walked this evening. One planet shone brightly, and the lights of Grand Prairie sparkled in the west. The sky above them was a hazy purple, then soft rose, then dingy yellow. Rays of light shot up into the darkening blue so gently that they almost disappeared if you looked right at them.

A cardinal, often the last to bed, I thought, gave a single pik. Then a Killdeer — I don’t think they ever sleep — called in the distance. I kept walking. Neighbors’ automatic sprinklers reminded me of my late-night walks during school, and they made me a little sad.

The western planet had grown so bright that I walked back to my car for the scope. I walked down past the street lights and sat on the curb. I’d thought it surely must be Venus, and my study revealed no moons. She burned with a fierce and beautiful light, and neither ancient myths nor satellites’ data could explain what she said to me there.

As I stood and turned to go, I saw the moon, huge and yellow and just risen over the houses. It looked translucent again, this time not like a worn-out disk but like an organic sphere lit by powerful light from within.

Then I really did go, and a movement on the pavement caught my eye. It was a scorpion, waddling down the road. And a Killdeer cried far away.

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