Grus canadensis

We heard it before we saw it. A drawn out croak rolled down from the sky. I stopped with a boot-squeak against the snow. Their call carries for over a mile, so hearing doesn’t guarantee seeing. Still, I tilted my face and scanned the blue. My companion crunched several steps further, then stopped himself and half turned back. “What is it?” he asked. The dog continued nosing about a “sticker-pricker” bush, which would get her in trouble in about two seconds. “Cranes,” I said, simultaneously hushed and excited as I always am in their presence.

Just as I named it, it burst over the bare fringe of trees, one sandhill, alone – an unusual sight, since they typically travel in family groups. Its uncoiled neck strained forward; outstretched toes trailed behind. It half-flapped, half-glided, riding a current so high up that a gull flying nearby looked approximately the same size. The sandhill crane is no gull. It is as tall as I am, with a wingspan two feet more than that. They are one of the reasons I am here in Michigan.