Sandhill cranes, my favorite harbingers of seasonal change, have started their migration north. Scores of them winter each year at the Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge located about a hundred miles south of where I live.
I heard those unmistakable sounds
The calls of the sandhill crane
They pierced the cool February winds
Winter would not long remain
I scanned the blue sky with shielded eyes
To watch their northbound campaign
They clustered in small scattered squadrons
Strung out like a daisy chain
I smiled at the sight of their flights
With a pleasure tinged with pain
They sang of the passage of seasons
A raucous haunted refrain
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