Michelle Webster-Hein

The Sandhill Cranes are back. A dance of the birds is nesting in the wetlands a mile behind our house, trumpeting back and forth in their loud, brassy rattles. One or two cranes in flight will cry out, and the rest on the ground will answer in a deafening chorus. Sometimes two of them will call back and forth for some time, and I will try to distinguish any differences in sound. Does the calling crane know the crane that answers? Are they repeating the same question and response, or does their meaning change each time?

These are questions I cannot answer, and I like them better for that. They become a relief from the urgency of myself. It is calming to listen to a language that I don’t understand. It is calming to remember the limitless scenarios in which I am only a blurred figure in the background, stepping out of the scene.