There is a tip of forever

in the wait for the cut

when you fly low on rufous wings

and call out your court.

Crane-necked, we hear you

rattle through grass

hoping to mate before meadows

are sheared.

A line that might stop.

No crex comes back

before the machine

grinds in the gap.

What sight is right?

We hope to spy

while you scour the meadow,

high beak, high eye.