The Cranes, Texas January
The Cranes, Texas January
by Mark Sanders
I call my wife outdoors to have her listen,
to turn her ears upward, beyond the cloud-veiled
sky where the moon dances thin light,
to tell her, “Don’t hear the cars on the freeway—
it’s not the truck-rumble. It is and is not
the sirens.” She stands there, on deck
a rocking boat, wanting to please the captain
who would have her hear the inaudible.
Her eyes, so blue the day sky is envious,
fix blackly on me, her mouth poised on question
like a stone. But, she hears, after all.
January on the Gulf,
warm wind washing over us,
we stand chilled in the winter of those voices.
We welcome the cranes’ calling early spring and late fall. But this January return is chillingly eerie. The wife may not be hearing them “after all” but instead the skewed “voices” (perceptions) of herself and her husband. Unnerving psychological imagery, such as “her eyes, so blue the day sky is envious, fix blackly on me.” An effective piece.