the grass has begun to green,
with the freezing cold and coming snow
its certain fate.
The cranes make the same mistake,
fields of red capped heads attest their arrival
just before the worst blizzard of winter
makes it impossible to tell the field from the river.
And we, too, have known these mortal mishaps,
miscalculated our time, found ourselves out of step,
arriving too early, staying on too late,
misjudging the nearness, the vengeance of the storm.
The cranes, the grass, they tell us:
this can go on for millions of years.
— Charles Peek