According to the weather, the chilly blue morning will turn hot today. Looking over the top of my monitor to the view outside, I see the northern farm waking and green, even after the dry summer. Sandhill cranes call and flutter occasionally bursting into flight only to dive back to our freshly planted wheat. Even with the loss of harvest, I delight in their chaotic voices and tumbling awkwardness when grounded. Ugly grey bodies on skinny stick legs with long rubbery necks, transform in flight to a corporation with bearing and seeming purpose.
This week our church has shown that grounded side, cawing and scratching for food, stealing the harvest before it is ready. Even as I write, a small flock of cranes take to the air, casting a strong shadow against a copse of tress bordering the farm. Flying low, they gather in numbers and take to the air. Their wings beat furiously for a moment, then they glide seeming to greet the day in confidence. Good morning.