A Passing Fancy

Twice a year I live in the company of cranes. Twice a year I hear their bugled calls and twice a year I look up and wonder what the arrival of the pterodactyls would have looked and sounded like to the terrestrials. Us heavies. Thick bones. Legs that must be built for digging, because they sure aren't getting us off the ground – and this in such contrast to the design of the sandhill, whose slender neck and long legs intersect with wings that stretch to embrace the sky. They're liable to float away on the next errant wisp of air, making every moment a sip worth sneaking.