Nebraska, the Last Time

We drove three hours ahead of the storm,
racing toward birds that might save us.
At their sanctuary we rested,
you on an old bench beneath weathered boards,
fighting for air through plastic tubing.

I watched dark clouds gather.
No cranes in sight.
No birds for you.

A woman approached, phone in hand,
radar glowing with green and red warnings.
"The storm," she said. Nothing more needed.

We left what we came for,
abandoned the hope of some grand reunion,
some field of dancing we'd imagined.

Windows down, first raindrops striking skin,
we drove in silence through gray fields.

Then they appeared—
streams of them crossing the sky,
thousands breaking the horizon,
their ancient calls carrying over wet earth.

A river of birds flowing opposite our direction,
their red crowns like small flames
against the darkening world.

You gripped my hand.
Two pilgrims watching travelers
more weary than ourselves,
all of us being washed clean.