It’s spring: redbud trees are flushed purple-red, while the plum tree is hazed with tiny white blossoms. Weeds are growing faster than I can pull them, and the sun is warming to a nice dozing temperature every morning (or so the dog reports from his spot on the chair).
The windows are open, and the house requires neither heat nor air conditioning to remain comfortable. The sun is warm and luscious, the shade is cooling, almost chilly. It’s absolutely the best time of year, here–perfect for walking, kayaking, hiking, gardening.
Then why am I sad? Sitting outside, I hear the echoing plaints of Sandhill cranes winging northward, see the shifting v’s form, merge, and re-form as they begin their long migrations. Despite the beauty, an ache of loss hollows me.
These are my cranes, you see. I like knowing they are near, even if I don’t see them each day. But now, their visit is ending. Their calls, so bittersweet and aching for home, announces it clearly. Before they even are gone, I miss them.
But you cannot cage the wild soul without altering it, so I would not keep them here. I try to remind myself that without their departure, I would not feel the same joy at their return next December, when the familiar cries of the first flock I hear rocket through me, drawing me up and out to search the sky for a glimpse of something precious, something mysterious and divine–an immense seasonal migration.