Diana Olmstead began talking about power outages. As a young woman she’d been caught at Grand Central Station in Manhattan during the famous outage of 1965. Rather than spend the night in the terminal, she’d hiked all the way home to Scarsdale with two other women. They didn’t arrive back in the suburbs until after midnight, but it was an experience she’d never forget, three Westchester women hiking through the Bronx along the Grand Concourse. Everyone was so nice along the way! The Italian man said that they thought nothing of power outages in the village where he grew up, that it was more common not to have the electricity than to have it. Ana told them that power outages were actually not bad for migrating birds. The grid of lights in the suburbs and the cities—especially the lights of skyscrapers—confused night-flying migrants and often threw them off course or made them crash. Pars Mansoor sat on the couch and listened. In the house in Shiraz where he’d grown up, they’d had electricity but no heat, and on winter nights he and his sisters and brother slept around a brazier filled with burning coals, heads closest to the brazier, bodies radiating out—like petals of a daisy.

Diana Olmstead repositioned her cane by her side. She understood that Ana Gathreaux was an ornithologist. Her first husband had been an avid birder. He used to drag her along on Christmas bird counts in Litchfield County. Once, they’d flown all the way to Costa Rica to see the Lovely Cotingas; that seemed another life to her now, but she still loved watching birds. She turned to Ana and asked what her specialty was.

Migration, Ana said.

So this is normally your busy time of year?

It should be, Ana replied.

I hate to think of migrants on a night like this. Diana Olmstead shuddered and nodded toward the windows.

The Italian woman leaned toward her husband and said something in Italian, and her husband turned to Ana.

Excuse me, he asked. Could you tell us what happens to these birds in the storm like this?

Migrating birds?

Yes, the migrating birds.

The Italian leaned forward on his elbows. Diana Olmstead sat back with her prayer beads in hand. Pars was waiting too.

First of all, Ana started, they don’t fly if they know better. Adults usually know better. They find a place to sit out the storm. If the storm is from the south, as they always are this time of year, some birds will fly inland, north and west, to avoid it. Flying inland takes them far off their course, but it’s worth the energy expenditure because, well, they have a better chance of survival.

The Italian rested his chin in his hand and lifted two fingers.

Yes, yes, he said, but what about these birds that get catched in…He made a circular gesture with his hand, il uragano.