By Patricia Correll
hen Shigeru returned home the crane was lying the yard before the house, doubtless blown there by the same storm that had trapped him in a roadside shrine for much of the afternoon. He stopped and stared at the bird, forgetting the heavy bundle of wood on his shoulders. He had always seen cranes from a distance, lanky creatures that leaped into the air at the slightest sound. Shigeru leaned his hoe against the wall of the house and crouched down to get a better look at the crane.
It was battered and dirty, its long legs coated in mud. Its feathers stuck out at odd angles. Its beak was slightly open. The patch of color on its head looked faded, not the dark red of blood, but the pink of a sunset. Despite all that it was impressive, nearly the height of a man and graceful even in death. Shigeru reached out to touch the crane’s black throat but paused, wondering if he should. Cranes were beloved of the gods. They lived a thousand years. Wouldn’t his rough hands just soil the beautiful bird further? While he hesitated the crane opened its black eyes. Shigeru drew his hand away, his heart pounding against his ribs. The shiny eyes reflected his pale face. Its beak moved weakly, and the eyes pinched shut.
It would be a terrible shame to leave the crane outside in the mud, under clouds that even now threatened to burst again. Shigeru went to the doorway and shrugged off his burden of firewood.
“Forgive me,” he said to the crane. He knelt and pushed his hands into the mud, beneath the long body. The bird was lighter than he’d expected. The crane’s long legs dangled over his arm as he carried it inside.
[contents] . 1 . 2 . 3 . 4 . 5 . 6 . 7 . 8 . 9 . 10 . [next]