Sand Lot
There is a chord that resonates within when from out of the autumn north sky soaring in the still night come the cry of the Sand Hills from their northern summer homes, arriving to spend the winter in the pleasant Florida climate. And I pause from the raking to gaze into the heaven not seeing the formation but knowing just above me circling are the cranes telling me of that longing for the pleasant places, away from the frozen stresses that would kill. And I resume raking, gathering the pine straw in circles, to gather them in the iron kettle, the smoke billowing toward the circling Sand Hill crane, a signal to them that I am below, just as last year, when as clock work, the burning began. I do not know if they got the signal or if they even acknowledged, raking silently, thinking of far off places from which we came, how if they missed the soon frozen ponds and bogs north, just as I, loved things over lands, far beyond my migration, land bound and locked in this acre lot. It will not be long before the time to return arrives, the leaves long since burned, smoke signals stored away. The cranes will stir, the land will green, when silently, upon cue, catching the scent of a northern current, one will lift, then another, and another, circling, higher and higher, calling, and they shall pass over me, silent in the acre lot, gazing, getting ready for the falling again, giving me the ability to signal them, when again, they return to me.
