“On motionless wing they emerge from the lifting mists, sweep a final arc of sky, and settle in clangorous descending spirals to their feeding grounds. A new day has begun on the crane marsh.”
“Yes,” I said, looking back up as the sun settled into the sky, the red blooming from it like flower petals. “It has already begun.”
“No hunter of the sky should end his days as prey. Better to die on the wing than pinned to the ground.”
“By your late thirties the ground has begun to grow hard. It grows harder and harder until the day that it admits you.”
“She felt his arms tighten around her, as they spiraled up, borne aloft on wings that were dark as the night, bright as a new star.”
“Don’t forget that birds with broken wings walking on the ground were once flying high up in the sky.”