An English In Kentucky


















Friday January 4th 2013    Tim Candler

    A dusting of Sandhill Cranes.  I estimated eighty or ninety of them. Almost too high to see, and they were circling, round and round, beyond the reach of lenses, and way beyond the reach of hunters.  When they do that in January, when there's still frost in the pockets all the way until noon,  three or four blankets on the bed at night and toes still tickling, the Creeping Grass very fast asleep, and the air so chilled it has frightened away the wind, a person begins to think them confused.   The calls they make, and which you can always hear before you can ever see them, add to an idea of confusion in their ranks.

      It's possible that everyday, around the same time, this faint cloud of Sandhill Cranes has emerged, but the eye does not look for them, cannot see them, unless they create a hullaballoo.   Yesterday I heard them from inside the domicile.  I knew straight way that I'd have to find the coat and more sensible foot wear.  Outside there was sun in blue sky.  An entire hemisphere to search.  And from where they were, they could have probably seen a hundred miles into the distance, maybe two hundred.  The Tennessee border and on south to the sanctuaries.  But I guess they didn't notice me pointing, because someone up there decided to head north, and everyone appeared to follow him.  Can't help but wonder if they know something I don't.  Either way, here on earth we have to find Spinach seed.

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