I am sitting here like patience on a mountain
White clouds for wings, a shadow over mountaineers
In distant view green, grey- valleys and wastelands
The seasons mean nothing to the unmoving
The echoes can hear you, the world is so self involved,
They will no longer speak to you
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.
Deep in fog,
The clatter over a bridge
River stones and moss
Gazing at flowers
I want to sleep
Lingering in your voice.
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.
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.