When she first met Russell, they used to go spring mornings to see the migrants in Central Park. A foggy morning after a warm front—or an abrupt shift from southerly to northerly winds—brought a fallout of birds on any given May morning: thousands of migrants pinned down for the day in the Ramble or along the lake. On the way home, in the streets, they’d find dozens of dazed or injured (or more likely dead) birds. Drawn by the lights the night before, the migrants found themselves in the morning trapped in the canyons of Manhattan. They’d be attracted to the lush planters on ground-floor lobbies of office buildings, and—not knowing better—they’d fly into the glass trying to get to the tropical greenery. Ana brought paper bags to pick up the dazed birds (Zabar’s or Macy’s for woodpeckers, brown sandwich bags for warblers). Back in the loft, she’d rehabilitate the injured ones and release them days later up in Inwood Hill Park, where they could fly unhindered to the north. Russell called it sentimental, her rehabilitating the birds. And she stopped doing it after their marriage. She hadn’t the time anymore or the inclination, and New York City Audubon volunteers patrolled the streets now in the mornings during migration. But she remembered those first days with Russell as some of the happiest in her unmarried life, the way they’d crawl back into bed unshowered, with the loft door open, just as the rest of the world was waking, and they pleasantly weary from their miles of walking in the dawn.