thanks for Martin Prechtel, for a story from The Wild Rose about the migrations of Sandhill Cranes

When a young crane wearies flying North
and his untried wingbeat slows
and he cries for the strength that’s left his body
and he falls towards land unknown
the god in the azure passes the message
to his mother and father and kin
as one they dive to the blue depths below them
and swift a great gyre spins.

They dance out an echo of elders and sing
as they stir up a column of warmth from below,
and the young crane body falters to know
it’s the will in the sky that moves his wings.

Fall, weary flyer, and know me at last.
I am the thunder cloud in your down,
I am the hollowness of your feathers,
I am the turning core of the earth,
I will cast you low to the thrum
that will raise you up to the sun.
only in falling can a love find you
that can lighten this long journey on.

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