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Before the end of fall,
when the monotuous days become shorter,
they, like a sudden storm,
come to the barren land
crossed by a pristine river;
and their massive hoards
partially darken the sun's face
and their croon isn't that low and dull... 

The chill in the November air
penetrates my shivering bones,
to discover that I am visited
by the friendly long-wing cranes;
and on the flat, weedless land 
they descend with amazing skill...
to confine themselves to meditation and silence:
and how can I lament the absence of friends?

By the sunrise-lit window
I gaze out to the immensity of the dormant plain,
barely seeing my wild river, which is swarmed
by the friendly and long-winged cranes;
and as a shrewd predator, I hide from them
to watch what they do and how they cope
with their hunger, at least they have water
to guarantee their survival through the early winter... 

Everything that I labored for, I earned with callous,
cracked and sun-dried hands;
and they work hard to gather their winter's harvest,
so that their little once never go hungry in any place!
Their six-feet soft wings is the perfect nest
to give them shelter and keep them warm,
and before hail and snow will turn into a dangerous storm,
they'll fly back to where they came from...      


Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci

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