There is something eerily odd about the call of the sandhill. Distinctive. It seems they are a little early this year, but then everything seems early this year.
The sandhills circle over the house,
Continue to circle
Over the house
Cold spring air,
Washed out blue sky,
Sun.
An odd migration,
They announce themselves
Like no other,
Fly around and around
And around.
They announce themselves.
We run outside in our pajamas
No matter the neighbors,
Stare into the sun
Watch them circle
Washed out blue back
To the picture.
No matter the neighbors,
We do not know
Where they are going
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