“So, on Christmas morning, we went out to walk the
dogs, and there was this lone, sandhill crane?
It was trumpeting, skronking, or that noise they make?”
“So, alone? I
thought they were always in pairs?”
“So, that was my point; I was getting to that? So, yeah, it’s odd to see one alone, but let
me back up. So it was Christmas morning,
around eight, really quiet out on the streets, and the fog was heavy, but the
sun was trying to break through?”
“So, yeah, it burned off by the time I went out,
around nine-thirty?”
“So, okay, there’s this sandhill, all alone, on a
vacant lot in the shade, if there had been shade, of this huge live oak with
Spanish moss? And there’s the fog, and
it’s Christmas morning, and he’s calling, trumpeting…”
“So, they always do that when you get close?”
“So…no. I
know that. That’s not what I was talking about?
So, there’s the crane, the fog, the tree, the Spanish moss, the sun is
trying to break through, and it’s Christmas morning, and he’s all alone, oh,
and there was absolutely no wind, no breeze at all, so the moss was perfectly
still, everything was still and quiet…”
“So, do you think he lost his mate, or maybe his
parents gave him the boot and he was calling for a mate? Was he jumping like they do?”
“Jumping…so…damn!”
“So, I’m sorry?
Start again.”
“So, okay…”
