Monday, December 01, 2008
1 December 2008. Gray fog holding the dawn, yellow street lamps, muted, gone.
Delta roads--rutted and worn--a farm track into valley air. Flooded fields--alfalfa, rice, corn--now standing empty. The Mokolumne, winding low, mournful calls from above--our sandhill cranes, banking in a wide V, calling out to those below. Hidden in ochre against brown fields--pairs, in furrows, gathered.
A dance, wings held high, all awkward leg, but still...their grace...