Rosanne Smith: “The Sandhill Cranes”
THE SANDHILL CRANES
On my path today, a worn and weathered man
turned and, eager, asked, Did you see
the sandhill cranes? He meant, I knew,
the two large birds some yards back,
standing in a field of waving grasses—
one bird, bent deeply forward, feeding;
the other, tall, eyeing me. Its elongated neck
curved sinuously. Earlier,
mirror-reflected, I’d caught sight of the slight
curve of my upper back, the start, it dawned,
of my own slow bent toward
and into earth. Now this man, elderly,
telling of migratory habits
(of which I mostly heard return, return),
said, Sorry? then leaned again
into my question. In broad-rimmed hat, dark shades,
under a sun I’m sure he’d known to warm,
to parch, today he stood brimming with Yes,
it’s rare to see them here. Grasses waved.
The mountains kept watch, clouds creeping
past peaks. I did see
the turning, still, to another; the sighting,
once more, of cranes come back. Like him—all grace,
all hunger.
Rosanne Smith’s poems appear or are forthcoming in various literary journals, including The Hollins Critic, Crazyhorse, and Water-Stone Review.