A Tiny Giant

A morning spent in the presence of sandhill cranes is a morning well-lived. A morning spent in the presence of a sandhill crane chick is a morning lived in happiness.

An unmistakable trumpet-like call sounded in the distance. The call was so loud it carried swiftly across the airwaves, a message intended for another receiver perhaps but caught by my eager ears, nonetheless. I picked up the speed on my bike, the gravel crunching beneath my tires, the bike frame creaking with the effort. The warm and humid air, soft as a gentle caress, moved my hair and hugged my body. The scent of pine and something else I couldn’t quite place seemed more potent than usual. There is something about how sounds and smells carry in the early morning compared to later in the day. It feels more magnified, more prominent, like an invitation to wake up and let the art unfold in front of you. Around me, many animals came out of hiding; blue jays loudly proclaimed their place among the pines, a few chasing a red-shouldered hawk out of their territory, an osprey or two dive-bombed into the canal to catch fish close to half their size, and woodpeckers drilled into tree bark like there was no tomorrow, turning the quiet morning into a cacophony of near-deafening sounds. A bike ride along the canal near my house is never dull; there is always an abundance of wildlife.

Only a few minutes after I heard the call, I saw them, a family of sandhill cranes. For once, I had taken my camera along on my bike ride, something I don’t usually do. The universe must have decided to bestow upon me a present of the ages because it wasn’t just a family of two adult cranes; half hidden in the grass was the fluffiest little chick. Old enough to leave the nest and explore the wider world but not old enough to have the typical characteristics associated with adult cranes: the slate grey color and a red crown. Instead, it has golden-brown colored down feathers that look as though it is wrapped in a sunset-colored cloud. Its thick, tall legs looked quite out of proportion for such a small bird, yet it walked around with equal precision as its parents.

I stopped a distance away and put my bike on the ground. As I sat down in the grass, I pulled my camera out of my bag and began to observe the crane family. The grass was tall enough to hide the chick from view now and then, but it looked gorgeous between the grasses and flowers. Mom and Dad were busy finding food for themselves and the chick. None of them seemed concerned with me being there, if anything, they moved closer as the minutes ticked by, treating me as just another animal out for a casual stroll. At first, I worried about them getting closer because an attack from a crane is not something to take lightly. These giant birds are as strong as they are tall, with beaks that can pierce skin and poke out eyes, but as they moved closer, they barely even looked at me. Mom—or Dad, I couldn’t quite tell because they seemed about the same size—had quite a successful round of pulling worms from the ground, feeding them to the chick, one after the other. The chick tried to pull out worms, too, but was not as successful as the parent. At one point, they moved so close to me that they were within hand reach, too close to be able to take pictures with my zoom lens, but the perfect distance to observe them from up close. Making sure not to make a sound or unexpected movements, I simply sat there and watched them go about their morning. The sun climbed higher in the sky, its light harsher as the morning progressed. All that eating seemed to make the chick tired, and it plopped down into the grass, eyes half closed, baking in the sun. It was not within hand reach anymore, but still close enough for me to watch it breathe, its tiny body moving up and down ever so gently. Mom and Dad had moved away a bit further, still very engrossed with the task of eating breakfast, seemingly comfortable leaving their chick in such close proximity to me. My back started to ache, but I didn’t dare move and startle the chick. We sat together, soaking in the sun’s rays and a massive dose of Vitamin Happiness for me.

Time was lost on me when the chick got up and called for its parents. They wandered off to the gravel trail, and I could finally move again. My legs had fallen asleep, my back was screaming murder, but my heart was whole. Any encounter with wildlife is thrilling, but moments like these are memorable. They are moments of entirely different creatures venturing into each other’s space, but instead of running away, curiosity shapes a temporary bond, being inside each other’s immediate space instead of a space somewhere off in the distance. To me, it is the closest thing to experiencing magic, the interconnectedness of two wildly different creatures in a temporary window of togetherness.

As I stepped back onto my bike and rode off into the horizon, the window of togetherness closed as the sandhill crane family faded into the distance. Nature returned to a quieter state now that everyone had breakfast and was back at home again for a late morning nap. Even though the encounter was brief, and I would likely never see the chick or its parents again, my memories turned this into a permanent moment, forever floating around in my mind, carrying it with me, always. It began with a single call carried on the airwaves, and it transferred and translated into something more permanent in the brainwaves of my mind. Message received, decoded, and stored.