Philips Reservoir, Watching the Cranes Come In - Nancy Christopherson

[Larry Robinson]

Philips Reservoir, Watching the Cranes Come In


I can hear them before I spot them, slow flapping in—
wings 
flashing in the distance almost white—the ruckus they make 

rubbing ribbed glottides together, not snapping just 
rattling, calling
out, trilling coo, purr-cooing. I know they have arrived

and will settle to rest a while before lifting off again, to
circle, higher, higher,
climbing higher to get up over the mountains bearing north.

They will cross the Northern Cascades then the tall 
coastal
ranges of British Columbia, or the wild northern Rockies 

of Alberta, the green-white coastal ranges of southeast Alaska 
to push on 
past Denali. Such a long route—but these are elemental beings, 

which makes me smile as I remember that they 
mate for life, 
are symbols of fidelity and longevity, even immortality—

in some cultures. These tall beige-gray wading birds 
with
bright red caps and round amber eyes which nest in the marshy 

Arctic tundra—and I, who have lost nearly everything
having been  
pushed away from the table as it were—the idea of 

them migrating gives comfort and a reason to beam—
there are yet constants 
in life. Cars and trucks roar past in the background along 

the two-lane asphalt to John Day. I realize the natural 
world 
survives just fine without me—in fact thrives—without 

any human involvement at all, if we’d just 
leave it alone.  
I should leave immediately and never come back.

	- Nancy Christopherson