When Ana mist-netted birds in the field, the most exciting part—she couldn’t deny it—was seeing what had flown into her nets. Every fifteen minutes, whether she was in Montauk or upstate New York or on Dauphin Island, she checked the black nylon nets to see what the wind had brought. Each time felt as if she’d been dealt a fresh hand of cards: a Cedar Wax-wing here, a Veery there, a Black-throated Blue Warbler. Each bird she’d extract with the same meticulous care, determining which way it had gotten caught in the first place. She’d take the bird by the legs, free the toes first, disentangle the wings or the tail, and sometimes she’d have to work the netting free from the forks of the bird’s tongue—a nasty job, best accomplished with a safety pin. Once she’d untangled the bird, she held it in her hands, its legs pressed between her fingers, wings free. They always tried to fly immediately but when they realized they couldn’t, they settled down and sat on her middle finger, their hearts beating wildly, their beaks open from stress. Ana often wondered what the birds thought of her—this enormous, willful predator, who manipulated their wings, plucked a feather or two, pricked them for blood, and then—just as suddenly—let them free. Once in a great while she mist-netted birds who’d been banded before (the tiny aluminum bracelets already on their legs). The birds who’d been caught and released before seemed—perhaps it was her imagination—a bit calmer, as if they were old hands at it and knew no harm would befall them.

When a bird, even something as large as a towhee or a jay, sat on her fingers, the weight seemed negligible. This had always surprised Ana more than anything: it still did. A warbler was lighter than half an ounce, lighter than a letter in an envelope with a postage stamp. At the banding stations, her assistants helped with the calipers, the bands, the scales, the pipettes for collecting blood. After they’d done all the recording, she’d open her palm and let the bird escape.

This was the moment that gave Ana—still—the most pleasure. The banded bird, palpitating, exhausted, was given its life back again. And there was always that moment when the bird sat warily, unable to understand its sudden freedom, not sure if it was being tricked again. If Ana looked away for but a split second, the bird would fly. Yet if she gazed right at it, the bird usually stayed put. It was often impossible actually to see the moment of flight. She could never look dead straight at the thing but only through indirection, through not looking, through almost forgetting, could she experience the bird’s flight.