on the back steps.
Her elbows are on her knees,
steadying her camera.
I sneak out the screen door
to watch the crane
at the water's edge.
Grandma whispers,
"He moves
like a snake on legs."
She slowly lifts her hand
to show me
where the goldfinch sits
on the pink zinnia.
The crane disappeared,
right into the morning mist.
We never saw him go.
We never heard a sound
. . . just like a snake on legs.
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