Night Driving

When you drive too late, too long,
whooping cranes rise from the blacktop night,
span the front of the car, rear up sudden
and out of sight. You warn me of this over dinner,
your words a caution I fold into my all-night
cross-country wandering.

Why whooping cranes, I wonder.
Why not common gulls or gold-bellied hawks?
Why not road tar transformed into raven, crow,
shadow-rimmed owl?

Mile after mile, I keep vigil,
search the headlight’s glare for those wild white wings,
the long curve of neck, the spindled legs.
I wait their perfect appearance
— the just-right word in a prayer saying stop here,
my young son’s hand saying stay,
insistent love saying now.

The twelve-hour road stretches on, each lane
blank as a starless sky. The white dashed lines
never falter, never rise to take flight.

I am near home, eyes gritty, black coffee
cold in a styrofoam cup, when at last cranes appear,
breasts lit with dawn, bright-feathered grace
descending. No whooping cranes, rising;
these wings are your warning
ushering me, safe, into day.