How Can I be More Like the Sandhill Cranes
who were, like me, also born in the sandy counties
of central Wisconsin, but carry a piece of tundra beneath their wing.
Who move like they know the land
flying their annual pilgrimage for that privilege.
Caught with open wings we found them,
necks stretched out—curved back and forward
again, dignified and stark lines, now escaping, writing
we know precisely what we are doing here
across the horizon. These cranes attend to the business of living
elsewhere, but once a year follow cryptochromes
without the guilt of leaving home behind.