Along the Platte River near Kearney
A rose and yellow sky
Keeps filling
With penciled chevrons
Of Sandhill Cranes
As they rise and take flights
To the fields to feed,
Their morning rituals
Of hopping, dancing, courting
On long stilted legs
Warm their muscles,
The Platte
Now like a busy airport
Grouping their flights
One by one,
Take-off after take-off,
The grounds turn bare
To await
Returning evening flights.