30 March 2005
Where's George? Sometimes I'd Prefer Not to Know.
One of my Where's George bills has been found. I entered the bill on November 29, 2004, in Chelsea, Michigan. Tonight It is 29 miles away in Belleville, Michigan, on its way to a "tittie bar" and George only knows where after that...
23 March 2005
Sanctuary
I first saw them, tall and stately, eight months after my brother’s death. I was watching the white edge of road ahead when Jack slowed the car and wordlessly pointed across me to where they stood ankle-deep in Pond Lily Lake. At the sight of them my hardened acorn heart split a little and put out a cautious root hair.
We parked at the sanctuary and squished our way up the hill. Woolen clouds were cable-knit across the sky. Mist settled on my hair, a network of diamonds I glimpsed at the edge of my vision. Jack set up the tripod and scope, focusing and turning knobs and cursing softly to his stiff fingers. There wasn’t anything to focus on. The wetland below us reminded me of a frying pan, pewter water, lead lid of sky, rim of copper cattails. No one else was around. A few chickadees jived in a dogwood.
Other soggy birders soon joined us. There were sighs and foot stampings. “The show’s a little late,” Jack murmured and wiped his glasses for the fifth time. It was getting dark.
A smoky smudge right on the horizon line sent the birders scrambling to their scopes. I heard a faint sound like someone running a thumbnail down a comb. The sound got louder, harsher, and the smudge resolved itself into a formation of flying sandhill cranes. Once over the frying pan they started to drop, legs dangling, like a platoon of paratroopers. The noise increased as more birds arrived, then more, and more, until long skeins of them wove across the sky in all directions. I happened to look straight up just as a pair coasted in directly overhead. Their soft gray bellies seemed close enough to skim my outstretched fingers. They held their black toes together like steeples. I felt like church.
We parked at the sanctuary and squished our way up the hill. Woolen clouds were cable-knit across the sky. Mist settled on my hair, a network of diamonds I glimpsed at the edge of my vision. Jack set up the tripod and scope, focusing and turning knobs and cursing softly to his stiff fingers. There wasn’t anything to focus on. The wetland below us reminded me of a frying pan, pewter water, lead lid of sky, rim of copper cattails. No one else was around. A few chickadees jived in a dogwood.
Other soggy birders soon joined us. There were sighs and foot stampings. “The show’s a little late,” Jack murmured and wiped his glasses for the fifth time. It was getting dark.
A smoky smudge right on the horizon line sent the birders scrambling to their scopes. I heard a faint sound like someone running a thumbnail down a comb. The sound got louder, harsher, and the smudge resolved itself into a formation of flying sandhill cranes. Once over the frying pan they started to drop, legs dangling, like a platoon of paratroopers. The noise increased as more birds arrived, then more, and more, until long skeins of them wove across the sky in all directions. I happened to look straight up just as a pair coasted in directly overhead. Their soft gray bellies seemed close enough to skim my outstretched fingers. They held their black toes together like steeples. I felt like church.
21 March 2005
"Happy 21st Birthday" read the shiny silver balloon expanding to block my view of the Farmer Jack employee’s face. I got that one and a purple one. The employee knotted lengths of colored curling ribbon around each and attached plastic animal anchors. I wrestled the balloons into the car and headed back to the apartment.
I let them float to the apex of the angled ceiling in the corner of the room while I filled out the card and folded the paper crane. I wrapped both items in Saran-wrap, punched a hole through them, and strung them on the ribbons. The balloons lifted towards the center of the room. The strange little airship passed its test flight.
The balloons bumped against the wall as I strode down the stairs and into the back yard. June 6, 2004, was a sunny day with wispy clouds breezing by. Gazing skyward, I took a deep breath and released it at the same time as the balloons. The crane and the card might have been heavier than I thought, for the airship didn’t soar like I had envisioned. It drifted away at a slow 45 degree angle, ribbons twining around each other like dancing snakes, balloons bonking heads, cargo flailing behind. It barely cleared the wires and disappeared over the trees, headed towards Dexter.
Happy birthday, Dan. My lips moved, but no sound came out.
I let them float to the apex of the angled ceiling in the corner of the room while I filled out the card and folded the paper crane. I wrapped both items in Saran-wrap, punched a hole through them, and strung them on the ribbons. The balloons lifted towards the center of the room. The strange little airship passed its test flight.
The balloons bumped against the wall as I strode down the stairs and into the back yard. June 6, 2004, was a sunny day with wispy clouds breezing by. Gazing skyward, I took a deep breath and released it at the same time as the balloons. The crane and the card might have been heavier than I thought, for the airship didn’t soar like I had envisioned. It drifted away at a slow 45 degree angle, ribbons twining around each other like dancing snakes, balloons bonking heads, cargo flailing behind. It barely cleared the wires and disappeared over the trees, headed towards Dexter.
Happy birthday, Dan. My lips moved, but no sound came out.
18 March 2005
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.
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.
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