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The crane same as last year knows the rock at low tide.

There are poems in things, in things over the years. Been seeing the cranes round here again. I say cranes—somewhere in some past I gather I have seen many—though I only see one at a time now where it concerns me. This time of year—rainy Galician autumn—is a time for them, at least here. I have a strange (familiar?) feeling that I know this one crane that happens upon my shore, right outside my window. (I live quite close to the water—a stone’s throw, quite literally.) [I’ll say the crane’s a she; she sounds better to me that way.] Wouldn’t say she’s particularly white—totally white not—off white and depending on the sunlight (today was grey and rainy and so was she), standing there on the rock waiting…I want to say patiently the way we erroneously say things when getting ourselves into animal skins. Cranes live 20, 30, maybe more years. This one has and will. Been seeing her here for—15 or just about that long. Begins to sound long, 15, doesn’t it? The days are getting short, the mornings dark. She’ll be off south again to where the days still grow.

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