Sons and Sisters of The Wind

The cranes are here! The cranes are here! They've come to feed, of what remains...of stubble field, of farmers corn...swallows, of their kind, tis like...to reappear about this strained contentious border here.

Sandhill Cranes, their hide stretched wings, enormous omens in the sky, as dragons from Jurassic times, more gently feathered than those foreborn terrors, no less haunting of their ululating cry's. The cycle reappears, eventful...covering the arcing atmospheric dome, in clans and crowds, a sedge of cranes, so ever dear, in this locale...

from year to year, a harbinger that, winter's come, or...come, so very near, at all. Nothing can be done for that. Drat! The cranes have come, so loved...to watch them soar, their great dark selves, impenetrably borne, to wing the wind on carriages of hollow bone, and storms sung sorrowful. 

They all come here...their resting place, soaring south from polar push, that wrath of rueful winter, that they cannot bear. They feed and feed, and fore they fatten to a fall...they fly and leave, until a year goes by. 

They love them here, those sons and sisters of the wind and sky. They love them here, and so do we, a son of wind myself, am I..

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art:Sandhill cranes in flight, google pic

note: The beautiful airborne miracles, that are Sandhill cranes rest and feed in Deming, where I live, every year, for a while. It's a very big deal to everyone here. I sit on the porch in the evening light, just before dark and watch them pass over our house and hear their distinctive cry. What a great and awesome sight, we are privileged to witness.