Waiting for Cranes

For Tom Mangelsen

Waiting for cranes

In a cramped camera blind

We recorded the Platte River sounds,

Rippling water and the long evening songs

Of seeming countless unseen birds, focused

And scattered voices overlapping, counter-pointed, turning

Undirected vocal baroque tapestry, orchestral calliope,

Cacophonous, melodious, anonymous, stippled

Painting, water-falling poetry, holy offering,

The longing lilt of Spring, freely cast into

The ending day, into the coming night,

At once random and one,

Distant and near,

Song and ear

As one,

Enclosed

And clear.

That evening the cranes never came

Yet we tumbled forth, forever filled.