(single crane crying out as s/he flew – to the left of the tree)
In the billowing
deep gray
Dawn
I hear soft
Murmuring…
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,
moderating
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.
