While working in the yard this morning I heard the distinct call of sandhill cranes. For me their primitive sound is the midwest's equivalent to the north country's call of the loon. It is a plaintive, haunting cry.
Looking over the Amish field which recently was cut for silage, I could not see any birds. Shortly, the crane's call could again be heard but still no sight of a bird. Perhaps the neighboring fields will be a resting and feeding stop on their long migration. However, the Amish are thorough and frugal harvesters who leave little in the way of stray ears of corn in the fields. This is an area where man's imprint on the land is more gentle than other places. Perhaps the cranes will find their way to my backyard if only for a short time so I may hear their migration song, watch them awkwardly parachute from sky to earth, and feel the vibration of their voices in my heart.