Tuesday, November 12, 2013


I think the three Sunday cranes will be it for the year.  A thin marking of fall passing into winter.

Three lone cranes flew
In the Sunday morning sky
High up,
Their crane voices
But distinctly
Next to that blue
Almost crystalline background,
So blue
No word identifies it.
Today my beloved texts me
From the north:
Cranes headed your way.
I find the message
After they have passed by.
I consider who lives south of me
Wonder if cranes veer
East or west
As they fly.
No telling.

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