Lone crane

The crane flies low, dangerously close to the roofs of cars, so close that a careless truck could quickly knock it out of the sky. Everyday the swan swoops down, the same time, the same place.

The crane visits the green lawn by the bungalow, the dogs and inhabitants give him no mind. He feeds and makes his way across the street, slowing working his way up, towards the end of the patchy shrubs between the pavement and tar road. He moves methodically, disappearing and appearing on roofs, compound walls but never parked cars.

That is his afternoon, by evening when the sky turns grey and dull, he flies off. A fellow observer knew the cranes patterns and told me where to look for him. Their main takeaway was that the crane had a strict adherence to routine and that it was alone.

This was once a valley, named after the elephants who drank at the lake. Now the valley is flattened by apartment complexes, houses, roads and turns. The low storm drain was once a fast stream and maybe instead of the pigeons, kingfisher and hawks, between electric wires and dropping covered TV-dishes there was more to this valley for a crane.

Can you tell a crane to move? That the lakes are gone and that there may be one, but soon he’ll be gone.

Sneaking past

A moth escapes

A rain shower

Faceless,

Yawning Breeze

Deep in the mist

All mine

Lake

Moonlight flows off his bed

The reflection seeps in a dream

Fern Lake, Lotus pond but a mile long

His feet push the clear waves

Drift through lilies, open up a path

An ode to moonlight.

Early Rains

My shadow the only shade;

I run home to open windows.

A crow laughs over seven lanes

And flies seven streets,

A hand through my hair!- it’s just breeze.

The airs cool when the lane dips,

And soft rain drips glass buttons.