Twenty odd years ago, I worked at an agency in North Platte and rented a trailer house near Hershey, just up on the bench above the river. We often hear the Sandhill Cranes going over on their trips north and south but they seldom land in the Sandhills proper. So, for about two weeks that year, I lived among them night and day and felt like I too could take wing and fly away. This poem was born from that experience.
Transition
Cranes slid in on sundown.
Silhouettes on saffron and slate,
Trailing echoes of liquid silver.
On frosted dawn breath,
Pewter wings lift.
They dance among wisps of fog
Rising from the river.
Shrill cries skim sandbars,
Interweave with wind,
Scrub the prairie bare
Of winter’s leftovers.
A cacophony
Of joyous greeting.
Later, their cousins come
To my meadow, blown in
By March gales, or the need
To revisit the hills of their naming.
Like me, come home,
Seeking renewal, strength for
Uncounted miles ahead.
Restless, by moonlight,
They make raucous plans,
Then slip off in the sunrise
Leaving traces of liquid silver
On my cheeks and heart,
In distant remembrance
Of a Platte Valley spring.
c Lyn Messersmith
1995