What in the Sandhill

Last night's rain shower accentuated this cold, brisk morning. Lingering rain clouds still hovered mischievously on the horizon as I headed north on State Route 99. It would have been the usual Thursday morning commute, except for a rare sighting of a Sandhill Crane. It grazed nonchalantly about a rill at the Delicato Vineyard.

The hustled highway of life passes by too quickly. To have seen the Grus canadensis outside of the conservatory was a special treat. Indeed, the bucolic impressions such as that penned by Po Chu-i (白居易) days are rare in this technologic and impersonal age.

The Cranes
by Po Chu-i

The western wind has blown but a few days;
Yet the first leaf already flies from the bough.
On the drying paths I walk in my thin shoes;
In the first cold I have donned my quilted coat.
Through shallow ditches the floods are clearing away;
Through sparse bamboos trickles a slanting light.
In the early dusk, down an alley of green moss,
The garden-boy is leading the cranes home.