We near the refuge as skeins of moonlit mist lift
and we hear the music of a thousand cranes
roosting in the shallows of restored wetlands.
Behind us, the sun crests the horizon, feathering
white the needles of frost on reeds and grasses.
No wind, just the constant calling, as though
from distant beginnings in an Eocene dawn,
when creatures lived in common symmetry
before our coming. In a clamor of wild voices
cranes rise into morning on slow wings.
When Our World Was Whole
Title poem by Liz Weir from her new book,
“When Our World Was Whole.”
