The Ramblers by Aidan Donnelley Rowley

May I join?” he asks, hands in his pockets.
    â€œOf course, of course,” Clio says, panic building inside her. “So, yes, this is my little corner of paradise.”
    â€œI’m sure it’s lovely in the summer,” Patrick says, looking around at the stark trees against the sunless sky.
    â€œHey, Northern Ireland isn’t exactly a tropical paradise.”
    â€œBut I live in California now,” Patrick says. “So, where are the hummers? Henry says they’re your favorite. Will we see any today?”
    â€œNo, sadly,” Clio answers, nervously kicking the ground. “It’s too late in the year. They’ve all migrated south for warmer climes.”
    â€œAh, so they’re smart birds, too.” Patrick assumes his spot at the back of the group.
    â€œA Varied Thrush!” Jackson says, pointing at the bare branches ofa nearby tree. He tilts his head skyward, lifts his binoculars. Others follow suit, including Clio. She sees nothing. She’s missed it.
    â€œCould be,” she says. “Good eye, Jackson.”
    She continues to walk, looking hard at the bushes and trees, willing herself to spot something, eager to make it up to her group, who have but the dregs of her attention. She reminds herself to breathe, to keep going, but Patrick’s presence is more than unnerving. How much does he know about last night? Is he here to conduct due diligence on his brother’s crazy girlfriend?
    They walk east along the double-arched bridge and she sees it, a Hermit Thrush balancing on a thin, delicate branch.
    â€œLook!” she says in a forceful whisper, but loses the bird. She trains her binoculars on the branch, waits for the slightest movement to find the bird. She does find it, and a faint and familiar sense of victory pulses through her. “Up there! See how her feathers are puffed up for insulation?”
    Clio feels something lift inside, but then her phone buzzes, pulling her from the moment. She sneaks a peek and it is a text from Henry. Relief and apprehension rush through her.
    Henry: We should talk tonight.
    Clio: Okay.
    She writes that one weak little word and waits for a follow-up text, something more affectionate and reassuring, but it doesn’t come. She turns off her phone and puts it away. She looks over at Patrick, studies him for clues, but his poker face is enviable. He catches her staring and she turns away.
    The rest of the walk tumbles by in a blur. This is typically the highlight of her week, the hours during which she’s most present, most attuned to the world, but she’s a shell of herself today.
    In the end, they have some good sightings—the regular wintering White-throated Sparrows and Dark-eyed Juncos, but also the less common at this time of year Gray Catbird and year-round Carolina Wren. It’s also a fine day for ducks; they spot Mallards and American Black Ducks and Northern Shovelers, Buffleheads and Ruddy Ducks. A solid morning, particularly given the cold, and Clio tries to convince herself it wasn’t a total bust, but she can’t shake the shame she feels, the knowledge that she has fallen short, that she has let these good people, virtual strangers she’s grown inordinately fond of, down. She leads them south along a park drive and back up to the Humboldt statue across from the museum. The pine dinosaurs flank the entrance, evidence that the holidays aren’t far off. Steel bleachers are being erected along the avenue for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. When the floats go by, Clio will be home in New Haven packing. The movers come in just a week. She can no longer avoid thinking of all that this means.
    â€œThanks, everyone. Have a great Thanksgiving and I will see you the weekend after next,” she says to her walkers, her eyes suddenly wet with tears.
    The air is crisp, vaguely damp, and smells faintly of roasted chestnuts. Clio shakes a few hands. Lillian lingers and