There is a tip of forever
in the wait for the cut
when you fly low on rufous wings
and call out your court.
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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.
