Phoenix Rising from the Marsh
The setting sun etches the blue-black
ridge against a turquoise and coral sky.
From the dark in the east comes the calls
of sandhill cranes returning to the marsh.
They become silent, set their wings, glide
to smooth landings, and take a few steps
to stretch graceful legs.
This morning, these same cranes flew
from this marsh, rising like phoenixes
from the ash and mud of the Cretaceous,
the spirits of dinosaurs that died millions
of years ago as that era ended. They lifted
slowly into the dawning sky, like Adam
reaching to the hand of God in the Sistine.
A few weeks earlier, these cranes warbled
high in a prairie morning into the sight
of an old warrior walking there, looking
for peace and solitude. He heard their calls,
like the simple notes of a Beethoven adagio.
His soul wanted to fly with the cranes.
As with emotions he felt in the Sistine Chapel
or when he listened to the adagios of Mahler or
Beethoven, he could find no words to express
the joy he felt in their ancient music.
