As I moved from task to task, feeding barn-bound livestock on a cold, black December night, my ear caught the deep-throated trilling of a flock of sandhill cranes flying overhead, bound for warmer climes. I quit my chores and allowed for a momentary interruption of business in the name of connecting with the significant biological pilgrimage that was taking place in the skies over Plowshares Farm, my Kentucky home for the last twenty years.
Flocks of sandhills make this trip each year, passing over us on their winter journey south and then returning in the spring as they make their way back to ...
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