Birthday Poem, 2018

Walking the ancient buffalo drive lines
rough dating the rows of rocks
by the presence or lack of lichen

At first we only hear the Sandhill Crane
A voice as prehistoric
as the greygreen-laced rocks

When it breaks from the brush
below us from where
the land slopes down to the creek

we freeze to watch
the power strokes of wing
that push the earth away

We feel ourselves descending
as the great bird rises
The earth becomes less in its departure

But we – a cousin who’s more a father
a friend who’s more a brother &
a poet turning 50 – become more