Endangered species?  Not this chick—she’s got
a built-in arsenal: claw, bill, and feather,
and soon she’ll pull her leggy act together,
gear up for the hunt.  She’ll troubleshoot
the dales and dunes where eligible males
from her subgenus are inclined to loiter,
then browse around, observe, and reconnoiter
until she’s got her target by the tail. 

Not for her, macaws that squall for freedom,
Not for her, the frowning peregrine;
She wouldn’t know an albatross from Adam
and doesn’t want some freckled featherbrain 
puttering in the garden, spitting seeds.
One crane.  One skinny crane.  That’s all she needs.

Summer around here doesn't leave
politely. No wafting away, full of good
excuses, into clouds of dissipating
humidity. No trailing nine o'clock sunsets
festooned with streamers the color
of seashells, or Damson plums.
Instead, she wakes up one morning
near the end of August, shakes the petals
out of her hair, takes a chilly look around,
and before we've had time to unplug the fan
and slam the windows shut, she's gone.
Just like that. Sometimes so fast
she catches her skirt in the door;
last year we were still finding shreds
as late as November.