Saving the Whooping Cranes
by Bolashade Hanson
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
Editor's Note: Please click here for context. Photo by Mark Peterson/Redux/The New York Times.
The Great Foiseau stood large dwarfing the tall grasses and observing her children, as they desperately poked their beaks into the cold water in search of nourishment.
She opened her paper-thin wing, worn down by her many years but bearing the same strong colors as her descendents. She let out a long note, her voice the sound of a revving engine beckoning the whopping cranes to attention.
Their heads popped up gazing in the same direction.
A stirring silence lingered in the air like the quiet after a winter’s first snow. With her wings outstretched, the Great Foiseau ascended into the blue expanse.
Her children flocked close behind,
as one should around the mother of their kind.
With ancient grace, she lead them to a promised land and destiny.
I marveled at the sight as the chorus of flapping faded into the distance.
My eyes could hardly contain their majesty.
She opened her paper-thin wing, worn down by her many years but bearing the same strong colors as her descendents. She let out a long note, her voice the sound of a revving engine beckoning the whopping cranes to attention.
Their heads popped up gazing in the same direction.
A stirring silence lingered in the air like the quiet after a winter’s first snow. With her wings outstretched, the Great Foiseau ascended into the blue expanse.
Her children flocked close behind,
as one should around the mother of their kind.
With ancient grace, she lead them to a promised land and destiny.
I marveled at the sight as the chorus of flapping faded into the distance.
My eyes could hardly contain their majesty.