Dancing Cranes

Once I felt better from the green brierberries, Pa took me to the creek where we had fought Ol’ Slewfoot to fish.  I caught a ten-pound bass and then a little small fry (which we threw back). I then heard Pa whistle, the same signal we used for squirrel hunting. I laid down my pole and walked to where Pa had requested me. He told me to follow him, that we would dare to get as close as possible–to the dancing cranes. I saw the magnificent white birds in the distance as we crouched on all fours and crawled closer. A few times we laid on our stomachs and pushed ourselves even closer. I made a count of the whooping cranes–there were sixteen in all. They were so close, I thought I’d be able to touch them with my long fishing rod. A crane pair stood apart, creating a song with cries and singing. Their rhythmic pattern was irregular. The other fourteen moved into a circle and began counter-clockwise and the musicians continued their music. The dancers raised their wings and their feet one by one, hopping from one foot to the other. The cranes had dipped their heads into their snowy breasts, lifted them high up again and sunk them back down. Wings fluttered about, rising and like long arms. Another outer circle shuffled around the smaller, inner circle. Suddenly, the dance and music ceased. I thought the dance had ended abruptly, or predators had invaded and had been found. Then the two musicians joined the circle, while two other cranes took their places in singing. The dance resumed, the marsh water imitating the birds' movements and steps in their reflections. Sixteen white shadows reflected their motions.

The evening breeze fluttered the creek saw-grass as the setting sun laid rosily on the cranes' snowy bodies. The grass swayed along with the cranes, and the shallow marsh waters, and the earth fluttered with them. With each breath I, too, felt my arms going up and down along with them. The earth was dancing, as well as the sun and the wind and sky, with the whooping cranes.