In the sky
beyondthe fog
sandhill cranes were flying north

unhurried above the earth,
above the reach of transmission
lines their only polestar

their sad, to us, calls, and without
meaning to we leaned toward their psalm-
like soundings, as if prayer might save us,

or perhaps unlike us the cranes knew
whether within me or beside me
what should befollowed,

whether the subcutaneous thrum of
water singing its way with sighs
too deepfor utterance

through the fogand across
the dismembered meadows, or toward
that isthmus of what was yetto bud

sandbar willows and red osier dogwood,
or toward the places the cranes had oncesettled
like quiet furniture, and just like that

as unsurprised by us as we want to be
by them, but we still knowingnot
how to pray as we ought.