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Lethal Restraint-Forced Sedation

Sandhill cranes swirl and kettle in a high mountain meadow. As she watches them and listens, CMarie wonders what the cranes would make of her, if they wrote poetry. She wants to live in a way that causes them the same delight they cause her.

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This episode takes place on Nimiipuu, and Shoshone-Bannock homelands.

Host and Writer: CMarie Fuhrman Field Recordist: Jacob Job Outdoor audio recorded in Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming Editor: Erin Jones Producers: Rebekah Romberg, Kibwe Cooper Engineer: Luis Antonio Perez Art: Maria Juliana Pinzón Executive Producer: Brad Turner Additional Editorial Support: Jo Erickson, Emily Williams Thanks also to Jodi Gersh, Clara Shelton, Arielle Wilson, Brittany Werges, Martin Skavish, Justin Peacock and Jon Pinnow

Terra Firma is a production of Colorado Public Radio's Audio Innovations Studio.

[Strange yodeling, honking, sound – Sandhill crane call.]&nbsp;

A high mountain meadow is an offering of cupped hands. Even in late fall, it holds water hidden in reeds and tall grasses. By the time I remember the water, it is too late; my feet are wet and sinking [bird call]. But the afternoon is warm, the sun heavy in a deep blue sky, and damp feet are a small price for the honor of being in this place [bird call].

Sometimes, the golden hour seems to last twice as long. This last light covers all places in a quilt of generosity, warmth, light that makes beauty even more believable. This is one of those times. The light is lingering, and so am I.&nbsp;

It has been a wet year. The rains have come and come, and now, even as autumn looms in the air, and on the calendar, it is green. The larch, the aspen, even the grasses are resisting the turn like children begging to stay up, just an hour more [gentle bird call]. I am trying to hold it all in my view when I hear the first kettling and look to the other end of the field and see them, like awkward deer, two adult Sandhill cranes ushering their young colt into the deeper grass. Their kettling begins to fill this bowl of landscape [red-wing blackbird trills], echoing as if twenty sandhill cranes surround us. And then they rise, wings as long as legs, dust-colored feathers with a tip of red on their heads that I will only see in the instances when I am close enough – through binoculars or by chance. And now this place is alive with their calls as they rise and fly in a direction opposite their colt, their wonderful tactic to protect their young. And I follow.

[Warbling honking of the crane] The call of the sandhill is a sound that belies possibility. Once heard, it is never unheard. We never again turn our ear to the sky and ask, what is that? To hear it is to know that this world is incredible beyond our understanding. To see the sandhill cranes is to confirm this. To watch them dance in fall and spring makes me certain that joy is an attribution given to all of us. Makes me certain that our place, our role as humans on this planet, is to recognize both wonder and delight and to be satisfied with merely beholding them. The inherent right of our being includes the right to know beauty. To experience awe. And how can we not, on an evening like this with sky the color of the deepest water and these two parents pulling me toward them.

The sandhills have not stopped their calls, as if, translated, they were saying “here, come here, look at this ooohhhh, you don’t want to miss this. Come, come. Here.” [Insistent, excited honking continues.] How undeniable this call of nature.

And I don’t deny it. I walk toward the song of crane, despite my desire to see the other side of the meadow. The silence of water mutes my steps. The light warms me as it has all day. And as I come to the edge of the meadow, the cranes rise once again and, flying low, return to their young, their colt, safe in tall grass and silent.

What might I look like, in this last forgiving light to those ancient caretakers of this bowl of beauty? If cranes wrote poems, how would I fit into this scene? Would they extoll the way the last light shined on my hairless shoulders? Laugh at my awkward dance through the hidden water? Reaffirm that seeing a two-legged didn’t have to mean disturbance but could also mean delight?&nbsp;

If so, that is the kind of life I want to live. One that delights, rather than disrupting or disturbing. A life walked in quiet and respectful awe. A life with enough humility to turn around when I am unwelcome [distant warble]. Sometimes, the best relationships we can nurture are built from merely observing from a distance. Wet-footed and full of wonder, I walk into the trees and up the small hill toward the ridge that holds the final rays of sun. The sandhills are singing behind me. Tonight, even in the dark, I will hear them. “Come,” they will remind me, “come here. You don’t want to miss this.”

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Terra Firma is a podcast about the outdoors, the sounds of the natural world and our place in it. Each episode runs about 5-10 minutes and pairs reflections on nature with gorgeous soundscapes captured in wild places.

Terra Firma

CMarie wonders what sandhill cranes would make of her, if they wrote poetry.

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