PROSE POEM FOR SANDHILL CRANES

And just as she bows before taking his hand to dance, or maybe it is his outstretched wing, the signal comes. It's time to go and the two rise up on a cushion of thermal air heading northward into the region above the winds. Or, maybe it is his outstretched wing.
Yet somewhere below, Marcel Proust, James Joyce, the little Picasso, and two musicians from a 1922 Paris dinner party arrive at the Taxi Graveyard where a British colonial spy lounges in a yellow two-seater, as if he has all the time in the world. And, maybe he does.
Through the western door, a saloon by this time, in walks a sense of humor talking of debt relief to the Buddha.
Sky writer comes next twirling a gray plume, or maybe it is his outstretched wing.
Torah, Quran, and the King James version of the Bible are born and record human pain.
"Non-events," he says to her, cocking his head slightly. "No matter, No matter, millions of tasty snails, nutsedge, and other watery seeds await our return, dearest."
Across dusty clouds and blue skies, lighted by stars or volcano fires, for two million years they have made the same journey.
Now she calls to him twice. "But it was only seconds ago," she says, "Only seconds."
Floating back down to earth, the lovers trumpet in unison for the duet to begin.
He again offers his hand, or maybe it is his outstretched wing.

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