ARLINGTON, TEXAS — Pondwater shimmered with the sky’s gentle pinks and blues. Great-tailed Grackles fluttered high overhead, calling softly, but I was sure their voices would not remain so soothing once they reached their roost. Mourning Doves flew the opposite direction, less numerous, and closer to the earth.

The imposing Ballpark sat just across the pond, and the garish orange and turquoise Titan lurked not far away. Huge jets from one of the world’s largest airports soared far above the grackle tribes. How wonderful, I thought, that I can find birds even here.

Tiny grebes gathered, leaving the ducks to themselves, until there were sixteen. They assembled at the far end of the pond, the end where I sat, as darkness increased. Some disappeared below the surface; others started to swim away. Sixteen grebes.

The wind wasn’t unpleasant, but tiny muscles raised the hair on my arms. I’d been inside all day, working from home with a cold. But my spirit was slowly being restored.

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