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At Kerry & McConnell, South of the Salton Sea . . .
. . . two hundred forty one Sandhill cranes! Fly home–from somewhere in the sun-downing west, toward the faded Chocolate Mountains, where they spent the day, gleaning on farmer’s fields–to flooded fields here for the night, in long, silly-string lines, floating down, in tens and twenties and seventeens and thirty-sevens and two by two by two.... in skeins and double lines, float one behind the next... banking, turning, spread-winged, land with a bounce and a splash, then shuffle feathers and head goes down for a long drink, a few splay-legged dancing, red crowns flash on long necks, head bobs, chasing; all the while, more come in–white bodies turn rose in the fading sun, call in their tenor yodel–from those on the ground to those in the air–come down, come down, they croon, the water’s clean, there’s plenty of room to spare.
in rice paddies where two cranes
dance a greeting