I had to get the shot. It had been weeks and still nothing—the cover… a magazine with no cover. I needed something startling, beautiful, understated.

I scratched my head, staring at the computer screen, and then out the window. What a beautiful day. The two o’clock light would not last much longer.

Needing a beacon from above, I searched around my desk and dipped through the loose papers and magazines within a twenty cubicle radius. And then I heard it: an unmistakable screeching from the sky. Grabbing my camera bag, I sprinted out the door and into the perfect cloudless sunlight—but, no birds. Baffled, I jogged around the building. Huffing and puffing, I asked strangers:

“Have you seen them…the sand hill cranes?”

They mostly stared in confusion, continuing on their way. A few politely replied, “No.” Tired, frazzled, sweaty, I tromped back into the office. Sally approached warily.

“What’s the matter?”

“I had the perfect shot, but I blew it. The cranes…I couldn’t find them.”

“Why don’t you just pose a shot near some landmark? Have you tried the fountain? I could call a few models; we’ve got the budget.”

I shook my head and sweat continued dripping head to shoulders.

“These are beautiful birds,” I said, staring at the ground.

“Well…just head down to the prairie and have a look.”

“No.” I shook my head violently. “I HEARD THEM. I’ll just try again tomorrow.”

I went home that night and had a few drinks, turned off the television, and said a bleary-eyed prayer.
The next morning scraped along at an excruciatingly slow pace. I was certain that at any moment I would hear the cranes.

The wind was working in my favor. The temperature: perfect. My quick migratory research indicated favorable conditions. The camera was charged and ready to go. Extra memory cards? Check. Zoom lens? Check. Sunscreen? Check.

I noted all this while pouring through my bird encyclopedia.

The Florida subspecies is often seen in residential yards and these birds seem little afraid of human approach. These visitors will eat shelled corn and commercially-purchased bird seed from the ground and from feeders.

Seed? Check.

I let a few grains fall through my fingers and then smelled my hand. Re-zipping the bag tightly, I threw it in my hip pack with the extra lenses.

Today’s gonna be the day, I thought.

Two o’clock sharp: I heard the dizzying big bird vibrato. My heart pound-pattered like a woodpecker’s beak, and I bounded out the door, squinting like a white-coated mad scientist on the brink of eureka. My eyeballs scattered violently while adjusting to the searing haze. When slowly fizzling vision spots faded, I was shocked to stare once again at the empty blue sky.

So, I stared at all the weather reports: local, regional, national; attended bird watch webinars; and brought my rabbit’s foot to work. One week later, I sat eyeing the clock on my computer screen: 1:59. The seconds ticked by and I compulsively stroked the rabbit’s foot. It’sokay, it’sokay, it’sokay…

The clock struck two and I walked in a confident trance for the door. The din ramped up per usual; my sunglasses were in place and I pulled out a pair of binoculars. Only bright white clouds soared above, so I walked back around the building. The rolling guffaw drew nearer than ever and in the distance I noticed a gray blur approaching.

I fumbled for my binoculars and placed them on the bridge of my shaking nose. A man: 5 foot 2 with olive skin, tightly drawn aged eyes, walked slowly behind a rolling storage bin. The wheels battered two and fro. Squeals echoed across the breezeway.

Dropping down, my head fell into my hands. I looked up, staring parallel to the approaching. My tired eyes wept.

There was no cover.