By KAREN MADORIN
Leaves turning from green to gold and russet, nippy mornings, and blue skies tinged with hints of gun-metal gray leave no doubt autumn has arrived, delivering its cornucopia of harvest goodies. Most of us see fall color and feel changes in daily temperatures, but few hear the haunting notes of autumn’s unusual song, trumpeted through the extended larynxes of thousands of migrating sandhill cranes.
Cranes flying overhead by the hundreds of thousands herald the first warm days of spring each year as they fly north to staging areas on the Platte River and later to nesting areas on the Alaskan and Canadian tundra. Each fall they tug winter’s frosty blasts behind them like Pigpen lugging his blanket behind him as they return to South Texas and Eastern New Mexico playas.
Long before spying them, I hear hoarse, rattling, trumpeting that only a bird with a nearly three-foot long, curved throat could produce. It is an old song, possibly sung for 65 million years, with at least 10 million of those years in the region of what is now Nebraska. Part of my brain, perhaps a segment that evolved eons ago when human footsteps were still fresh in the dust of this planet, responds to these lyrical notes. What I do know is that like folks who play “name that song” games on the radio, once I hear a note or two, I can distinguish lesser sandhill crane music from that of other migrating birds.
I first heard it this fall as I stood on our deck. Leaving pots of still blooming petunias, moss rose, and geraniums and the canopy of golden leaves hiding the grass, I hurried into a nearby field where I could scan the sky, searching for the ancient flying dinosaur shape of these long-necked, gangly-legged birds. Upon spying their silhouettes, it isn’t hard to imagine them as prehistoric creatures. Their flight path took them east of my position. I noted the slow wing beat and the careless grace of a couple hundred birds winging southward. The sun would set that night somewhere around six-thirty, telling me these birds had another good hour of flight before darkness descended.
Keeping the cranes in view as long as I could, I silently wished them travel mercies complete with ample food and water as they navigated toward the shallow lakes of their winter homes. Just as I heard them before laying eyes on them, the last notes of their chorus disappeared after they faded from sight. For a moment, I wondered if I imagined seeing these magical birds. Then, notes of another flock winging its way along the same route confirmed reality.
The following morning, I realized why I’d heard crane songs so loud and clear the afternoon before. The birds raced a cold front sweeping from the North. We’d soon awaken to a frosty world where ice imprisoned summer blooms and etched windows and lawn furniture with fanciful designs.
Every now and then as I work outside, I catch faint notes of distant stragglers following fellow cranes south. I wish them the same good fortune I wished those first flocks. Paradoxically, I long to hear that ancient song announcing the arrival of another spring.