Awe

They descend from the clouds. In twos and threes and then in larger groups, the graceful birds land on the marshy field about 100 yards away. Thanks to the scopes set up by the nature center for those of us who are binocular-impaired, we can view these birds careening toward their destination, their legs sticking straight out behind their bodies like Olympic swimmers in the sky.

Sandhill cranes

at Jasper Wildlife refuge, Indiana

The nature center before boarding our bus to the preserve, I learned about these elegant creatures called sandhil cranes. Their feathers are tinged with brown from rolling in soil filled with iron. They are not fickle , but like geese, mate for life. And if they are lucky, that life would extend for 25 years. That means 25 roundtrips from their homes in Quebec or northern Wisconsin to Florida.

I’m a newbie when it comes to birding. We are told there are nearly 8,000 Sandhill cranes socializing in this Indiana wildlife refuge, a layover on their way to Florida. If you peer through the scopes, looking with one eye, you can see some dancing, lifting their wings and hopping on their long legs, perhaps celebrating that they had made it this far. Not far way there were deer grazing at dusk, bounding through the green marshes.
And then we see it- a sole crane, towering over the others, with a mostly white body. Someone yells ‘it’s a whooper.” Thorough the scopes, we watch this interloper move awkwardly around the sandhills, who seem to sense he or she is different and shun him. Some birders, I am told, wait an entire lifetime to see a whooping crane, whose existence in the wild numbers only 400. I can see the bands on its leg. We strain to make out the number to report to the International Crane society but it is too far away. Its feathers have brown blotches, signaling this is an adolescent.

After about five tense minutes of crashing the sandhills social hour, the whooper flies off, maybe to find another group of sandhills more hospitable. I am wet and tired and cold. But I feel that same sense of wonder I did after I watched a whale, its blowhole signaling its ascent, emerge from the deep Atlantic and glide on the surface like a giant grey skimboard. Or when I once saw a flock of evening grosbeaks descend on my feeder in the Catskill Mountain, their underbellies sunshine yellow against the snow. And I, in awe, was a blessed witness.