Aging Bones

Jogging is no longer the morning ritual
that defined me for five decades. These days
I walk, an exercise of necessity, not desire. 
 
Many miles. Long hours. Day after day.
But as I plod alongside the Betsie River, 
the slow stride allows me to see
 
the fuzzy white whiskers of the milkweed,
pale-purple dots on the horsemint, and
suddenly, the lanky legs of three bodies
 
strutting down the path in front of me. 
Instinctively, I stop. Unsure. For they are 
nearly as tall as me, and while there was a day
 
I might have outrun them, this is not that day. 
Their size, the number, the unfamiliarity
paralyzes me. As they near, I notice long necks
 
stretching from feathered brown bodies, 
two of the foreheads red as the pileated,
beaks as menacing as those of the heron. 
 
But curiosity has replaced concern and I slowly
slip my phone from my pocket to photograph 
the gangly birds so I can hail them by name. 
 
Indifferent, the birds stroll within three feet before
turning to press through adjacent fields. Perhaps
next time, when I greet them as sandhill cranes, 
 
they will stretch their wings, pump their heads, 
leap into the air, and whoop for a woman
with aging bones content to no longer be jogging.