(single crane crying out as s/he flew – to the left of the tree)


In the billowing

deep gray


I hear soft


listen to

a Spirit call

down from the sky.

After she rose

from the river

was he too

saying goodbye?

Every cry

is a mourning song

for a soul

left behind.

But I will not stay

long without them.

Where they go

I will follow…

The Cranes

migrate North

with the turning

of seasons

as I must

to seek colder waters,


heat that cools

at sunset,

fresh dew at dawn,

frog filled nights.

When the days grow soft

with golden light

we will both return

to spend fall and winter

tucked into the willows,

held by red earth

cradled by a flowing river.

The cranes will roost.

And I will listen

for a sky full

of heart hauntings,

scanning the horizon

for a glimpse of hundreds –

dear friends

once again

making their descent,

some to sleep

in a sunflower seeded field

next door.


(Lily b has been singing and singing as I write this poem of imagining leading me to believe that next year the cranes and I will be together again – for those who do not follow this blog – Lily b is my 28 almost 29 year old telepathic dove – he literally reads my mind and responds vocally)


Working notes…


Yesterday I only saw ten cranes; this after witnessing huge flocks day after day for months. Overshadowed by mourning I wrote my way through loneliness with an essay on migration… At dawn a muted murmuring from the river brought me to an unlikely edge. Not all the cranes have departed – not yet I thought, having a sudden illumination that the few cranes that are left are leaving me with hope for an eventual reunion, although I have no idea how they are communicating this idea to me. All I know is that I felt the caul dissolve as I wrote this poem.