Cranes

It is late June and I’m returning from the library summer camp. My head is full of children’s books. I turn into our driveway, and there in the center, near the birdfeeders are two sandhill cranes. “Dr. Seuss birds!” I shout.

I smile.

It may not be magic, but it is magical.

All summer long they have grazed our alfalfa field and have come to our feeders for corn and seed. I have tried to get close enough to photograph them, but they hear me or see me and walk away back to the field.

Standoffs define the Sandhills relationship with the barn cats. A cat slinks through the grass. The Sandhills ignore him. Or are they unaware of the cat’s presence. Something—a noise or a movement—causes the Sandhills to pause and look around. They spy the cat. The cat stalks them. The Sandhills straighten and spread their wings. They hop and clank. Undeterred the cat moves closer. Eventually, the cranes retreat to the fields. The cat sits up. Puffed up in pride, he cleans his paws.

Cranes, it seems, are also shy of humans. Like most wildlife they have reason to be leery of us. The 19th century fashion craze for bird feathers drove several species including cranes to the brink of extinction. Today, although they are protected, they are still vulnerable.

Every morning I look out from our breakfast room and wait for them to appear. The few days that they don’t come I worry. Are they gone? Have they moved on? But no, they return. But then I worry that they have become too dependent on us, too acclimated to us.

Most of the time there are two cranes in our yard or in our fields. Two light tannish cranes who after a rain shower turn to gray. But then twice, four cranes have gathered—once in the fields and one at the feeder. Two tan cranes and two gray ones. Now I wonder, have there always been four cranes?

Soon they will take flight and begin their journey south. With them will go some of the magic.

I wonder if they will remember our fields and feeders. Will they return to raise their young here?