Soon There Will Be Seagulls

At the ballpark up the street from the UCSF Mission Bay campus, the sun sets and metal halides flood the field in artificial light. Crowds are milling about, seemingly unable to reach their seats. Players trot out onto the diamond and flex their muscles. Somewhere near the seventh inning, a few birds appear. They pass overhead, ghostly white against the darkness, then circle back later. By the eighth inning, there are a hundred, maybe two hundred. I wish I knew how they time their appearances–they always appear near the end of the game. So many birds glide overhead now, uncanny in their silence. Are they eyeing the leftover garlic fries? Do they follow baseball? I’ll never know, because at the final crack of a ball against bat or mitt, the crowd rises noisily and exits the bleachers. We always forget, in an instant, to look back.