|Somehow, I managed to capture the scene.|
On a crisp fall night I stopped and wondered,
Where is that formation of trumpeted thunder?
Chilled by the moon, and its gray light,
Ahead to the south, persisted a flight.
Head tilted back, my eyes strained to see.
"THERE THEY ARE!" Sandhill cranes in a V.
Marveling at the magic, I am alone in the experience. Standing quiet on a frosted deck, above me the last leaves of fall oscillate against a vague undercast moon. The slightest blue wind encourages them to drop. North, in the darkness, a new facet is being cut through the night. Collectors see brush strokes; investors the bottom line. Myself, it is the undaunted voices I hear among the sedge.
Their volume growing at individual rates, each crewmember, perhaps playing coxswain, projects a staccato cheer. Life is a race for these longnecks. Losing has permanence. Cold is the opponent; warmth the finish line.
Shadows among shadows, their beating hearts deny cover. No accumulation of moisture would ever behave that way. Organized and directional, the gracefulness of the flight contrasts the song.
When receding temperatures set the scene, and gray skies become backdrop, these actors stir my soul. Waning in the distance, the song of the sandhills always elicits a thought. Both selfish and selfless, it is an eternal wish for safe travels and to see them once again.
Click here to listen to an example of their song.
The Philosophy of Aviation
A pilot dispassionate of birds is dispassionate of flight - RD