The Lone Crane

Mist
drifts on the lake, a singing bowl
of mystery, pines
angling the rim, breath
of September thinning
and catching
on the edges of autumn,
and on the cusp
a crane waits.

He sees
leaves releasing in mute surrender,
revealing
forgotten robin beds, feels
warmth retreating
from the skin of the earth
down and down into
deep and unshakeable summers
under the world.

He stands
regal, listening
for the messenger wind calling
witness to justice,
wings leaving whispers
of what his eyes
have seen 
in the sky, wings
calling eyes to heaven.

A blink,
and he is gone, rising
into winter alone.

~s. rochelle