Cranes

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

Thin

But distinctly

Crane

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.