Cranes

baby cranesSaw a couple of Diplomat cabs on the road today. It reminded me of my first cab ride in Florida, coming from the Sarasota airport. The driver, as are all of the Diplomat drivers, was from Haiti. His accent was thick, but beautiful, and I was curious, so I asked him about his home. He told me it was very bad, you know.

Yes, I did know. I have seen the news, and cried over it, and felt helpless and angry. I didn’t want to ask more, because I didn’t want to minimize his pain.

But here’s the thing. If Florida were destroyed in an avalanche of greed and violence, and I had to leave, perhaps, I, too, would just tell people that it was very bad, you know. But I would still remember the best things. I would remember Sandhill cranes, walking sedately with fuzzy chicks in tow. I’d remember alligators, warm ocean water, and sunny days.

That’s what I want to hear about. Don’t tell me what I can find in the news. Give me hope. Tell me about your cranes.

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