Ribeye in the Sky
In Praise of the Sandhill Crane: A Noble Bird of the North American Soul
The cranes always announced themselves before Willie ever found them high — so high — aloft. A thin, rolling bugle — half trumpet, half ancient prayer — rained down from the New Mexico sky. It was the migratory call of the season, the wild music he and Moonbeam received as a blessing year after year.
Moonbeam spoke, brushing a bit of windblown hair from her face.
“Willie, did you know some of our neighbors complain that the cranes are too loud? Honestly. I suppose they’re just tired and need their old-age sleep-ins.”
Willie looked at her as though she’d announced the moon had gone square.
“No,” he said, deeply affronted. “Absolutely not. They must be demented. Who are these people?”
Moonbeam laughed. “I’m not naming names, darling. But apparently, the ancient bugling of a two-million-year-old species is now considered an inconvenience — an actual offense.”
Willie shook his head, muttering into his coffee. “Imagine living in New Mexico and complaining about cranes. That’s like moving to Florence and griping about too many frescoes.”
Moonbeam smiled. “Exactly. Nature doesn’t run on our schedule. And I might add — they also complain about the Bosque coyotes yipping and howling all year.”
Willie said, “If they want quiet, they can buy foam earplugs like sensible citizens. But nobody — nobody — tells a crane to hush. Nor should they gripe about the coyote’s call of the wild.”
After a moment, he brightened. “Do you want to go down to Bosque del Apache and see them by the thousands? We could make a day of it — snap a few photos, grab a vegan burger at the Owl Bar and Café.”
Moonbeam arched the eyebrow that signaled practicality. “Willie, we have cranes, snow geese, and ducks right here along the river behind our house. Why drive over a hundred miles to see something we’ve already seen several times before? A two-hundred-mile round trip means close to a hundred and eighty pounds of carbon shot into the sky for a one-day outing. Does that sound ecological to you?”
Willie hesitated. “It can’t be that much.”
“Oh, it can,” she replied. “Every mile we drive, the car coughs out invisible trash — carbon dioxide, nitrogen oxides, all the stuff that heats the planet and fogs up lungs. We treat the sky like an invisible landfill, then act surprised when summers fry, rivers shrink, and the air tastes like someone left the burner on.”
Willie sighed. “True. Very true. But still… Bosque del Apache. The cathedral of cranes.”
Moonbeam softened. “I’m not saying we never go again. I’m just saying — when the cranes are already gifting us their ancient music right here in Bernalillo, maybe we don’t burn an extra tank of gas to applaud the same birds from a different angle.”
Willie stared into his coffee, imagining exhaust pipes trailing ghosts down I-25. “Fine,” he said at last. “Local cranes. Local gratitude. Fewer ghosts in the sky.”
Moonbeam slipped her arm through his. “Exactly. We’ll save Bosque del Apache for a trip that truly earns its carbon. Today, we honor the cranes we don’t have to wound the air to reach.”
Willie opened his mouth, then closed it again as though reconsidering the entire philosophy of road trips.
“Moonbeam,” he said, tilting his head as if a long-buried memory had just blown in on the wind, “I don’t think I ever told you about the time my father taught high school in Bula, Texas — a little place that’s mostly a ghost town now. One of his students showed up at our door with a freshly harvested sandhill crane. Just handed it over, proud as could be, expecting Dad to cook it for our family of nine.”
Moonbeam blinked. “A crane? Delivered like a casserole?”
“Oh yes,” Willie nodded. “Feathers, long beak, the whole dignified affair. Back then, folks hunted what the land offered, and gifting game was a mark of respect. Dad didn’t have the heart to refuse. He thanked the boy, took the bird in hand as graciously as any minister receiving an offering, and carried it inside. I don’t recall what became of that gift meat — I only know I never ate a bite.”
Get William P Fleming, MD’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
Moonbeam’s eyebrows climbed. “Willie Fleming, are you telling me your family accepted a whole crane like it was a neighbor’s extra zucchini?”
“Well,” Willie admitted, “in Bula, a bird that size was practically community outreach.”
He shook his head. “Sandhill crane is famously called the ribeye of the sky. Rich, beefy red meat — supposed to be tender like a prime steak if cooked rare. Wild-game people swear by it. Juicy, flavorful, absorbs seasoning beautifully… so they say. And yes — I checked. It’s still legal to ‘harvest’ them, with a license and a special permit.”
“A sandhill crane in the kitchen,” she said, shaking her head. “Of all your stories, that might be the one that proves you grew up in another century.”
Willie chuckled softly. “Another world, at least.”
Moonbeam squeezed his hand. “And now here you sit — defender of cranes, champion of wild things, horrified at the notion of anyone silencing them. I’d say the universe raised you right, even if it had to start with a prehistoric bird on the counter.”
She stood, stretching lightly as the last of the story faded. Outside, the afternoon light was muted, brushing the cottonwoods with soft gold.
“Well,” she said, “all this talk of prehistoric birds and ecological virtue has made me want to see the real thing. The ones who haven’t been turned into folklore or pot stew.”
Willie glanced toward the window just as a faint bugle drifted through the air — thin, distant, unmistakable. “They’re out there,” he said. “Announcing themselves again.”
Moonbeam reached for her jacket. “Then let’s honor them properly. No car keys, no gas tank, no ghosts in the sky. Just us and the walk to the river.”
Willie brightened. “Binoculars?”
“Of course.”
“And Huckleberry Zen?”
Moonbeam grinned. “Naturally.”
At the sound of his name, Huckleberry Zen — dozing in a sun-warmed patch of floor — sprang to life with a little hop, his outward-folding ears bouncing like flags in a breeze. He trotted to the door, tail wagging, already anticipating the scents of the bosque: damp soil, cottonwood bark, the faint spice of wintering geese.
Willie slung the binocular strap over his shoulder and opened the door. A breath of crisp air rolled in, carrying the distant chorus of cranes banking above the river.
“Come on, Hog,” he said softly. “Let’s go greet the noble birds.”
Moonbeam slipped her arm through his as they stepped into the settling evening. The three of them — man, woman, small ecstatic dog — started down the familiar path toward the Rio Grande, where the cranes were gathering in the light just beginning to dim.
Their calls rose and fell like a slow pulse from the sky, ancient and undomesticated, echoing off the cottonwoods. Willie felt it vibrate through him the way he always did — gratitude layered with wonder, and wonder with something older still.
“You know,” Moonbeam said, leaning close, “this is the best way to see them. On foot. With no carbon footprint but our own.”
Huckleberry Zen trotted ahead, ears bobbing, nose to the wind. The cranes called again — louder now — welcoming their small pilgrimage party to the edge of the bosque.
And together, they walked toward the wild music that had summoned them.
