Lit from inside, birches
spark, flare,blaze trails
for travelers
outstretched in air.
Tawny cranes
return to rest
where earth cradles water.
Cranes graze, pace, graze, then
flap scuttle jabber scold . . .
This harvest
flashes, wingspan of sand,
hillside of crook-necks
soon to move on.
What will remain
has always remained—
water seized
by ice-driven air,
faith through hard cold
that the languages
of marsh, sky,
sandhill crane
will keep on
with us or without.