THE ROLLING PLAINS, TEXAS — There is a place, on the plains of Texas, where the ruddy Caprock gleams miles away. Huge old cedars rise out of the grasses, and if you look closely, you can see movement behind them. If you have the courage to approach them, you might feel a tingle in the air as you pass into the ruined courtyard. You might want to speak in whispers.

There is no roof, but the green walls stretch toward the blue sky above. The little homes inside are decaying, furniture and all, as if the humans just faded away with the years.

Or maybe they’re bursting out of the windows now, transformed, white and soft with dangling legs. Of course we don’t believe in such things today, but I understand why the ancients did.

They are Barn Owls. Our intrusion stirred them up, and we watched them flying back and forth, dark eyes, pallid faces, long feet, throbbing hearts — ours.

There is a place where bobwhites thrive, there on the Texas plains. We tallied over a hundred, more perhaps than I had seen in years combined.

Our host, Phillip Kite, had a deep Texas drawl, a master’s in psychology, and a solid knowledge of the West Texas birds. His son Aaron, a boy of nearly 10, liked birding too.

It was a good day: 1 Prairie Falcon, 1 Ferruginous Hawk, 2 Pyrrhuloxias. Life Chihuahuan Ravens on 261 past Kalgary. Everything was bone dry, and the cedar breaks below the escarpment held not a single robin, waxwing, solitaire, or bluebird. Only the scrappy mockingbirds held their own.

We finished early, returning to the marina on White River Lake. Courtney and I decided to get a head start on the trip back home, but things spiralled out of control, and by 9:30 — 9:30 on New Year’s Eve — I’d collapsed on a bed in Odessa, Texas.

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