A pair of sandhill cranes bugle in December,
the flock high and hard to see.

The cicadas have been quiet for months
but the buzz of what comes, what disappears

heats the air, as if now the tornado sirens
pulse on some inaudible frequency

you must pretend you don’t feel.
The dogs are bothered. Your language tastes

of pennies and grime. The cranes call out
visions of the magnetic field, threads

to follow home, a compulsion
to act. The people wrapped in their houses

like presents, about to be torn apart.
 

—Callista Buchen

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