It’s something you count on. I look forward to it.
I find myself squinting toward the sky to see if those are geese, ducks or cranes. It appears that the geese get to come first, then the ducks, then the cranes. And even though migrating thousands of miles should count for something, we don’t get half as excited about the geese and ducks as we do the cranes.
Is there enough water in the platte river for the cranes? Is there too much water? Did we leave enough corn on the ground to attract them?
The arrival of the sandhill cranes is a sign that spring is actually going to happen. They also put us on the map. Where we live is special because of who they are. They make our home a tourist destination each spring. Famous people make an annual pilgrimage to south central Nebraska to see one of the last great migrations on earth.
The cranes are bigger than ducks and geese. Their long legs and huge wing span set them apart in flight. But the way you can really tell if that “V” flying over is our cranes is the sound. There is nothing like that sound. We long for it in February, then can’t get it out of our heads in April.
Their call touches something deep in our souls. It resonates with some primeval clock that’s set to the turning of the planet. We get to witness something big; something that’s been happening since before our ancestors ancestors even thought about migrating to the high plains to live. We get to be part of this ancient drive in their tiny bird brains that tells them to stick together and be on the move north for the summer once again.
So just when the events of our world seem to have gone all out of kilter with new shootings every week, congressional budget battles, murders, the threat of another flu epidemic, record snow storms in the east, drought and the threat of wild-fires in the west, we squint toward that black “V” in the sky and hear that sound and we know that they’re back. Something is right with our world. It’s going to be O.K.
Grace & Peace,
