I heard them in the flower hedge, a bank of New Guinea impatiens aglow at summer’s end. Sparrows, I guessed, or one of the other nondescript birds.

They were chirping and chattering, calling to each other. Maybe they were squabbling over a crust of bread or a late-day worm. Maybe they were planning their winter escape. Or maybe they were just commenting on the perfect air, the weightless wonder of the afternoon.

I stopped. I listened. I didn’t care who was behind me, who might have had to stop short.

I brake for birds. That’s all there is to it.