DALLAS, TEXAS — I heard tapping in a live oak; then I saw a flash of red. A Red-bellied Woodpecker had himself a nice fat acorn, and he was hard at work to crack it open. Trouble was, if he hit too hard, the nut fell out of the crotch where he’d wedged it, and he had to catch it and start over. I watched him for a moment, then with a silent wish for the best went on my way.

The morning air was still and brisk. I had pushed my meeting back to 10:30, deciding that this was the day for my overdue visit to the Cedar Ridge Preserve. Perhaps I should not admit such things now that one of my bosses reads these tales, but I’ve decided that birding keeps me from workaholism. That, I think, is in everyone’s best interest.

Robins and Blue Jays moved in groups through the trees, and I took time to look at them, forcing myself not to write them off. I was glad I didn’t. Chickadees and yellow-rumps were busy as well, and I saw three Chipping Sparrows sticking close together.

The activity continued as I followed the ridge — a flicker, a mockingbird, cardinals. Then there was a Golden-crowned Kinglet, and I stopped to watch her. She had the extraordinary habit of darting through space and landing upside-down, clinging effortlessly to the underside a limb.

I heard another golden-crowned somewhere, and then I saw her farther back, in a large tree. Oh, not one, maybe three! And there, a raised orange crest, so boldly colored I took it at first for a ruby-crowned. I heard a ruby-crowned, like a golden-crowned whose voice has changed. Then there it was in the tree, flaring that brilliant crown. I left the tiny monarchs to their battles and continued on my way.

Before long, the path began a descent. And racuous voices behind me increased steadily in volume. I couldn’t help but smile, and I decided the birds wouldn’t mind much either. We are still in Dallas after all. I stood aside to let the ladies pass, and I could hear them for a long time afterward, even as I watched a red-tail settle on the very top of a cedar on the distant ridge.

“I already got my lights up.”

“Wha? Come on now.”

“I’m not lyin’!”

Habitat in the lower elevations was more open, the domain of Field Sparrows and noisy Bewick’s Wrens. I passed a pond surrounded by common reeds 10 or 12 feet tall. There were Song Sparrows in the reeds, but I saw no waders or waterfowl.

The last half of the walk — on a trail called Fossil Valley — was quieter than the first. The cedars and hackberries were denser, and I didn’t hear much until I came across a feeding party of titmice and an Orange-crowned Warbler.

By the time I made it back to the parking lot, the sun was warming the world just slightly, and my jacket might have gotten uncomfortable before much longer.

A Brown Thrasher flew across the path and dived into scrub. I too departed the sunlit realms.

ARLINGTON, TEXAS — Since both of my regular desks were taken today, I set up my laptop by the picture window in the conference room. I couldn’t get the mini blind to stay up when I pulled it, so I tied the cord to a chair.

As I write, I am watching a Great Blue Heron stalk along edge of the pond. The sun has long disappeared behind the apartment complex, and the heron looks very dark and sneaky. With the sun gone, I can feel the cold air seeping through the window. We might get a frost tonight.

Rock Pigeons flew through the skies all day. They hung out on the apartment building roofs but never stayed still for long, taking off and circling around in groups of two or six or many.

A Red-tailed Hawk flew over late in the morning, wheeling and soaring on broad and capable wings. I couldn’t see the bird well, but its tail looked very pale.

House Sparrows dashed in and out of the pampas grass and other ornametals down below.

But my favorite today was the kingfisher. I watched him through much of the morning as he perched on a short post near the water. Occasionally, he gave his tail a slow, methodical twitch — up … down. I thought of the Sacred Kingfishers on the other side of the world. So different, so far away. But they too twitch their tails.

He caught a fish once. I didn’t see the catch, but I saw him sitting there holding it in his bill, trying to maneuver the slippery creature without losing it completely.

Late in the afternoon, he waited long on the fancy stone bridge that leads over the pond to the apartments.

Then with a primal battle cry, he launched himself from the stones and smashed into the water. He was back up in an instant, and the fish in his bill didn’t keep him from uttering a victory rattle.

And now the light is almost gone. It’s time to go home. The heron has disappeared under the bridge, and my fingers are getting cold. We might get a frost tonight.

ARLINGTON, TEXAS — I hear juncos!

MCLENNAN CO., TEXAS — A Marsh Wren gurgled from the cattails below me, and a small movement caught my eye. Swamp Sparrow. Somewhere out in the marsh, a Sora whinnied. Another answered.

A gravel road ran below the observation deck, but no trail led down to it. Did that mean visitors weren’t welcome? Hmm, a car was coming … oh, a park ranger. I didn’t want to incur his wrath, but surely there was more to this place than one little observation deck. Well indecisiveness would get me nowhere. I walked down the hill and onto the road.

After a few steps, I heard a Marsh Wren singing behind me. I turned and saw him flitting at the base of the cattail stalks, just beside the road. He never quite stayed still, peeking out of the cattails to eye this Brobdingnagian and see whether it meant any harm.

I didn’t.

Farther up the road, some sparrows flushed as I approached. They stopped in the cattails, and I raised my binocs as they continued shuffling positions. Hey, a Lincoln’s … isn’t it? Yes, oh wow, just inches above a Song Sparrow. Very nice. Wait … unbelievable! A Swamp Sparrow approaches from the right.

And for a moment they formed a once-in-a-lifetime constellation: the Melospiza Triangle. The Song Sparrow sat lowest, large and coarse. Above and to the left was the Lincoln’s, delicate, subtly colorful. And to the right, the Swamp Sparrow showed off a dark gray head and rufous topside.

Then one by one they went their ways.

Two Inca Doves popped up, one dropping quickly to the water’s edge and the other fluttering as if trying to land on the long blades of grass that overhung the water. It abandoned its futile endeavor and came to rest on a cement structure.

A young yellowthroat, with smudges of black along his eye, moved quickly through the cattails. There were several yellowthroats, in fact, including one adult male. Another Sora whinnied across the pond, but it remained hidden in the cattails.

Behind me, a woodpecker was busy in a tree. I wondered whether Waco’s woodpeckers were red-bellies or golden-fronteds, and the bird kept me guessing for awhile, hiding behind branches and hopping quickly from limb to limb. Finally I saw the black-and-white central retrices, then the crown. Red-belly.

Two Field Sparrow hopped through dense brush.

By then, I was walking parallel to the highway, separated from it by a hedgerow. Ducks kept flying overhead, and I heard quacking from across the road. I wondered if there was a pond over there, but I couldn’t see anything through the shrubs and trees.

As I continued walking, I was completely alone. No cars, no pedestrians, no one. I kept wondering whether I was actually supposed to be there, and I rehearsed a few lines in the event of a park ranger’s approach. But there had been no instructions in the visitor center, and I hadn’t seen any signs.

The rest of my walk didn’t yield many birds. I saw a couple of snipe fly over, and a phoebe or two hung around the edge of the cattails. There were always a handful of vultures overhead, and a red-tail flew over.

The sun broke through the clouds once, lighting up the landscape. Just as I lowered my camera, a dark, heavily built raptor flew low over the cattails. If I knew what it was, I would tell you. But here is the landscape, anyway:

I didn’t have all day, so I turned around and walked back the way I’d come. A family of three was fishing in the pond. Ah good, I thought. People are allowed to be down here.

Scores of blackbirds flew over, but I didn’t see a single yellow head (or yellow eye, for that matter) among them.

Birds were active on the wooded hillside behind the visitor center, so I worked my way back slowly, tallying White-throated Sparrows, an Orange-crowned Warbler, House and Carolina wrens, cardinals, kinglets, chickadees, goldfinches, house finches and a Downy Woodpecker.

When I got back to the parking lot, I saw a bright blue sign in front of the road up which I’d just come: “Authorized Personnel Only.”

Whoops.

But I felt more confusion that guilt, for I didn’t see where else visitors could go. Was the observation deck really the only permissible spot? And why was the family down there fishing?

A small knot scope-bearers stood around in front of the visitor center. They didn’t seem to be doing much of anything, so I got in my car and drove on, deciding to look for the pond whose existence I’d come to suspect.

Sure enough, a short while down the road I saw a large pond on the left. It spilled out into the surrounding pasture, and it was covered with ducks. I pulled as far off the two-lane road as I could and got out.

Wigeons, pintails, gadwall, ring-necks, mallards … killdeer … coots, shovelers, Green-winged Teal, Redhead? …

Then I heard cars, and I turned to see a caravan of vehicles pulling up behind mine. The scope-bearers had come.

Someone approached. “Are you looking for the Cinnamon Teal? Or just looking?”

“Oh, there’s a teal?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. I thought that odd, but I didn’t press the issue.

Then his flock gathered around him, and he started naming off the species I’d already identified. “But no Cinnamon Teal.”

I was gratified, not because the teal was gone but because I would have felt like a dufus if I’d missed something so exciting.

By then it was nearly eleven, and I really needed to be going. The flock and their capable leader had drifted away — still without another word to me — and I headed back toward my car.

Just then, someone hurried from farther down the road. “It’s here. The teal’s down here.”

Well, maybe I didn’t need to be going just yet. I walked part way down the road, trying not to join the flock that crowded excitedly round a scope.

I scanned the far reaches of the marshy area — and there he was. Deep chestnut, swimming with a few blue-wings. Beautiful!

Then I really did go. It wasn’t the most sociable thing I’ve ever done. If any of you Waco birders are reading, thanks for the teal. Maybe someday we can introduce ourselves.

I made it into Waco just in time to meet my dad, who was in town for a conference.

When we split up again, I wandered around Waco a bit. Two beautiful White-winged Doves banked across the road in front of me and disappeared into a live oak.

Now, ordinarily I would heap abuse on the head of anyone foolish enough to read maps while driving. But I found Waco a confusing place. I tried to confine my map-reading to traffic lights and stop signs, I really did. But these are a luxury not always available.

Suffice it to say, I ended up west of town without bodily harm. Still wearing my blazer and khakis from the conference, I tried twice to access Lake Waco, managing only to glimpse water in the distance. I did see Savannah Sparrows, an Orange-crowned Warbler, and chickadees in the process. Meanwhile, I reflected that I was quite possibly the most overdressed birder in the whole state that day, and I was tempted to set up the tripod for a self-portrait.

I finally found the water. Before I got out of the car that time, I took off the blazer. It’s nice to say you’ve been birding in a sport coat, but it is neither comfortable nor practical, especially on an 80-degree day in November.

Not even a coot presented itself among the boats and docks, but I finally saw an Osprey at a great distance. It was coming my way, and as it approached, I could see a green sunfish clutched in its talons. The bird and its fish made a striking picture as they passed beneath the moon, which was already high in the afternoon sky.

I wandered around a bit more and finally returned to my car, ready to begin the drive home. I saw a dark spot in a distant snag. It was the Osprey, eating its supper.

Waco’s last gift to me was gasoline — for $2.11. I think it’s the cheapest I’ve paid since I returned from the South Pacific.

THE METROPLEX, TEXAS — This story doesn’t really have much to do with binoculars — but I’m already getting ahead of myself.

This morning was refreshingly cool. I heard a burst of rapid chatter out my window — kinglet! I looked up and saw it perched at the tip of a branch, wings flitting. Jh-jh. And it was gone.

That’s yard bird number 14, for those keeping track with me. An accipiter fluttered over very high early yesterday morning, but I didn’t identify it. I picked up Mourning Dove and House Sparrow last week, and I saw a Brown Creeper Sunday.

After finishing business in Duncanville and Dallas, I decided I’d head for the Drying Beds. I wished I’d left my binoculars in the car, but I went back to the apartment to get them. I found my camera, but the binocs weren’t in their usual spot. “They were in the car,” I exclaimed in disgust, and headed out the door.

Back at the car, I checked the trunk. No binocs. Argh.

Then I remembered carrying them back into the apartment … but where were they now? I crossed the parking lot again and hurried back up two flights of stairs. There they were, in the closet, on top of my sweaters. Go figure.

TARRANT CO., TEXAS — When I finally got to the Drying Beds gate, I was distressed to see it closed. I kept driving; there is another entrance just to the west. It too was closed. A back-roads detour netted me one kestrel and two red-tails. I decided to make one more pass at the gate, remembering the couple’s words last time: “Sometimes they close it but don’t lock it. So don’t panic.”

But I might as well have panicked, for the gate was securely fastened with a chain and two padlocks. There was a number to call, but I don’t have a cell phone.

It was a keen disappointment, but I wasn’t ready to give up and go home. I wasn’t excited about returning to River Legacy, but without my trusty atlas, I didn’t have any other options.

The park was much less crowded, which was an encouraging sign. Maybe I would get a sapsucker out of the deal. I took the road that I hadn’t taken Sunday, but it turned out to be the other side of a loop, not a trail into new and exciting territory.

It was by now late afternoon, and small birds were fairly active in the woods. The first bird I saw was a drab warbler with two wing bars, obscure streaking on the breast, and not much else but a case of hyperactivity. I decided it must have been a Pine Warbler, and then I caught a glimpse of a second bird that looked like an orange-crowned.

I didn’t walk far, sitting instead to look out over the river. I heard White-throated Sparrows calling, and I finally saw one, then two, feeding in giant ragweed at the water’s edge.

Juncos called too, and I saw a few as they moved through the trees and the understory.

Four Wood Ducks (I presume) flew by quickly, and turtles swam in the river, surfacing to breathe and then disappearing completely in the murky green water.

As the sun dropped, vultures began to stir. They took off from the river’s north shore and flapped wheezing overhead, heading who knows where.

Gray clouds filled the sky and drifted very slowly north. Fallen leaves floated very slowly atop the opaque water. The vultures continued their evacuation, and great jets rent the skies high above. Cardinals and sparrows cried in high-pitched voices — distraught or joyful, how would I know?

Some branches were bare, and black against the gray. Yellowing leaves still clung to others, watching their kindred float downriver.

The world suddenly seemed very old, very tired, and almost empty. It was sad, but not in an unpleasant way. Ends come. Peace comes. Nothing is better, but at least I can’t feel it here.

This is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends…

And this is the peace that the world can give.