The cranes weave 
around the orange trees
and make their way to the yard,

skitter at each other
under the canopy of oaks
above a canopy of concrete.
The asphalt is sun-bleached
under tall, ancient legs. The day turns,

and the rain makes dark music against 
the lids of the trash cans out back.
Wicked stilts bend
like dry trees in a gale.

A clot of red congeal
dampens the crown of a hatchling.
A crown of zinnias blooms.

Up off the knees and into the sun.
The day is breaking, taking
the storm with it. Clouds like lint
push the humidity back,

and the air enters craned throats.
A death rattle from the sternum 
into an upward song.