The sky was a washed out gray-blue,
The trees in constant motion from the wind,
The cool air hanging in a thin fog
As the hours of the afternoon drained away.
Weary from four days of constant rain,
The used-to-be clouds were limp from the effort of bearing
So much moisture ninety miles from the crashing surf of the Pacific
To the heavy wet silence of the Great Valley.
A cry in the sky. A thin sketched line
Jaggedly drawn by a quill pen on parchment,
A long ragged string jerked and pulled like a toy
Tugged by a child across a linoleum floor,
A feathered ribbon of pumping life,
Long necks stretched and calling,
Came. So high! So distant.
Lined along the telephone wires,
Toes tight, feathers full,
Small brown heads looked up
Into the rain and listened.