I am


the crane you saw on your way to the off license, Christos. I saw you reaching for your phone camera as I flew away and after I flew over your head, it struck me how charmed you seem. It made me feel uneasy. I flew away to the river, Thames, where I found the others. We are on the way to Diepholzer Moorniederung, beautiful bogs in Germany to spend the rest of Spring. No one of your species has looked at me the way you did. I just wanted to say it struck me, to have a man fall in love with me. It has never happened to me specifically, before. To catch one of you, in mid-motion, between marble and blood. You have no idea how remarkable you all are, to us, too.

I hope you photograph a crane one day, dear Christos (I got your name from a blackbird who sings to you all night in Hither Green where you live, where you live, in Hither Green where you live), but also remember kindly – and somewhat voraciously – that we cranes are motifs of immortality in Chinese mythology. I suppose the lesson here, from bird to man, is that even when you are sitting down, doing as something as seemingly straightforward as writing a poem, a great crane. A great crane is flying out of your chest.

With love,
A crane.



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