Sandhill Crane on Christmas

“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…”