When the Sandhill Cranes Returned
Some sounds do not belong to the present. They arrive carrying the memory of something older than ourselves.
As I ventured outside this afternoon to welcome my girls home from their day at school, I was met with an unusual sound coming from the sky. I looked up to see what I thought were geese flying in their usual V-formation, except these birds were not making the typical honking sound we’re familiar with. The sound they made as they flew high above in flocks of thousands demanded my attention. They carried the sound of something ancient.
As we walked home, we took in the sight and sounds of this mysterious species flying too high to identify. We questioned what we were seeing, what we were hearing, and why we didn’t recognize them. A neighbor happened to be outside tending to his gutters and offered an answer to our bewilderment.
He stated, “They’re Sandhill Cranes. They’re migrating to Canada. Some of them are coming from as far south as South America and will only stay here to rest, or they’re too old or injured to travel that far.”
I was stunned by not knowing about these cranes. I knew what cranes looked like. I’ve seen them throughout my life at small ponds. I’ve been in awe of the few I’ve seen, but these seemed new to me. Their sound and the sight of so many of them flying overhead all day was new bird behavior in Indiana for me.
A few moments later, we went for a walk to soak up the long-awaited, gentle air that was briefly visiting. As we walked to the park, we continued to be amazed by the flocks of Sandhill cranes making their long journey to their chosen destination. Their unique sound played as our background song along the way.
Upon walking home, the sky was no longer filled with that magic. The cranes had completed their journey over this small path we call home. I was happy for them. They knew instinctively, of course, that this was their perfect time to travel over Indiana. It was a cool mid-60-degree day, sunny, and only a slight breeze flowed through the trees. But the next day was set to be relentlessly windy, with the wind chills making it feel like a bone-chilling 7 degrees.
Once home, I looked the cranes up online, and waves of memory washed over me like high tide as I recalled my dad and me stopping each time we could to watch these exact cranes. We had witnessed them together many times and even seen a couple of the more rare (and nearly extinct) Whooping Cranes.
I can still vividly recall the look on my dads face when we saw the elusive white crane. His smile that was as golden as the sunsets in Georgia, and the twinkle in his eyes sparkled like stars in the night sky.
There are days such as this one that gently remind us how beautiful life can be. How one ordinary day can become filled with wonder, magic, and loving reminders that memories we once held so vividly -even those that quietly slipped to the back of our minds - still exist and still evoke the same joy.
Memories transcend time if we just slow down enough to notice.
And to the neighbor who rekindled memories I had locked away, I’m thankful he offered his knowledge to us. It’s very fitting that a dormant memory of mine was awakened by the Sandhill Cranes returning from their winter escape.
Some migrations happen in the sky. Others happen quietly within us.
