Cranes In Autumn

what we need
is here.

             Wendell Barry

One bird aims her neck

toward the sky,
the other slants his
toward the ground.

The first is poised

to hear a cloudburst,
her partner – to listen
for  a cricket's song
                 in the grass.

Both are waiting  for rain

like the  flower bush
and  tree leaning against 
the weather bleached wood.

And when it comes,

the rain will rinse
their iron shapes, giving
each crane – a spirit.
For a moment
                 they will feel

the ache of fallen leaf,

torn bloom of rose
and  fence rail fraying
into splinters And most
of all, they will sense
our shadow, inhale the joy

              lingering -- there
in the corner
where I read you  poems
and the moon  floated
its muslin kite
over a green field.