Dru Philippou
Far North
After a two-hour drive, I spot the sandhill cranes in a waste barley field and pull over. They stare back at me through crimson masks, move away in slow motion. A few miles on, I see another flock by a farmer’s waterwheel. I am close enough to hear their throaty khrrrr, khrrrr.
At the wildlife refuge, smoke pluming from prescribed burns darkens the air. Stubbled cattails dot the charred marshes. The misty San Juans and Sangre de Cristos float into place above the desert. Along the ground, milling cranes form a gray wall, blurring the horizon. Already, they are testing the thermals that will guide them to ancient nesting lands. I call to them, my child voice so quiet it seems unheard.
empty skies
power lines thrum
in the wind
About the Author
Dru Philippou was born on the island of Cyprus, raised in London, and currently lives in northern New Mexico, where hiking in the high desert wilderness around her home nourishes both her spirit and her writing.
Lovely rite of passage haibun. The narrator “migrating’ to witness the migration of the cranes. I’ve witnessed this myself and it’s enough to leave one breathless.
Thank you, Tom, and for your wonderful and insightful interpretation.
A beautiful interpretation of an area I regularly visit and a capturing of nature’s voices that have always been deeply moving for me.
Thank you, David. Yes, “nature’s voices” are so important to me, too. The mountains in that area are astounding as you know, especially when covered with snow which makes them appear surreal.
Great choice of “thrum”
It fills the ear as well as the imagination with vibrating power lines
Adelaide
I appreciate the observation, Adelaide.
For no cranes fly near here, only flightless ones with one leg rooted, which push the sky further up the hill of Hampstead.
No more Feldenkrais on upper floor or the thrumm of London. Words now flow from the hills of the conguistador.
Forgive me! (I remember your name from lessons in Belsize Park) and like your poetry.
Kind regards.