38 NEBRASKAland • NOVEMBER 2018
Flight
Not far off I-80 in central Nebraska
the last pinks of sunset go soft,
and overhead, waves of sandhill cranes
swell with melodious conversation.
They are returning from nearby fields
to overnight on the river; since late
afternoon we've stood in anticipation,
bundled on an old railroad bridge.
On approach, they slow their wingbeats,
extend their slender legs into the water,
give their feathers one more flap,
fold them against their ample bodies.
In the mass they are not alone, yet each mate
somehow knows the other's distinct voice—
this vigil in the dark—digesting the day's meal
for the lengthy journey ahead.
With the naked eye, there's only restlessness
in the frigid channel. Through field binoculars
the group is animated, chattering, nervous,
the cacophony blunting all thought of speech.
I focus on one crimson mark on one small head.
A stiff breeze strokes the back of my neck.
If I move now so much as one muscle,
I might erupt into flight.
