Crane Boy. Diana Cohn

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      Every October, I wait for the black-necked cranes to return.

      The birds fly over the highest mountains in the world to

      winter in the soft wet fields of the Phobjika Valley where I

      live. Here they grow fat, eating worms, slugs and the fallen

      grains from the buckwheat we harvest each year.

      I want to be the first

      to see the cranes.

      I look out my classroom

      window and shout, “Look,

      the cranes!”

      My teacher sighs. “Kinga,

      that’s only a flock of crows!”

      Another day I see black

      specks in the sky. “The cranes!”

      My friend Pema laughs and

      says, “They’re pigeons, Kinga!”

      Day after day, I wait for the

      birds we call trung trung with

      their long necks and their loud

      squawking calls.

      “They’re here!” I shout.

      Pema says, “Yes. I see

      them too!” Everyone runs to

      the windows.

      T

      he

      cranes

      circle

      the

      go

      lden

      roof

      of

      the

      mon

      astery

      wh

      ere

      mon

      ks

      chant

      pray

      ers

      for

      the

      well-

      being

      of

      all

      liv

      ing

      things.

      They fly over the Crane

      Center where Kado works. He

      is called the Caretaker of the Cranes.

      Kado tells us about these birds that have visited

      Bhutan for thousands of years.

      “Long ago many more cranes came to our valley, but

      this year we counted only 203,” he says. His eyes are sad. “But

      the more we learn to care for them, the more we can help their

      numbers grow.

      “To protect the cranes, we preserve our wetlands so they

      have enough to eat,” Kado says, “but we need to find more ways

      to help them, for they are our sisters and brothers.”

      What can I do to help?

      That night I tell my family about Kado and the cranes.

      Grandmother says, “Trung trung bring us good luck for our crops.”

      “For hundreds of years,” Mother says, “artists have painted them on the walls of our

      houses and monasteries.”

      Father finishes his butter tea and says, “The cranes bring strength to those

      who love archery.”

      I want to be a great archer like my father. At the village archery

      contest, he pulls back his bow until just the right moment, then

      lets the string go. Zing! When his arrow hits the target over 400

      feet away, his team celebrates with a dance. They each stand on

      one leg, then turn and jump up and down, just like the cranes.

      “Wah-ha!” they sing, thanking the cranes that have flown so

      far to bring the archers strength and good luck.

      Maybe there is a way I can help the cranes.

      The next day, I ask my class, “If people

      come to our archery contests and to our festivals

      to see the monks dance, would they also come to a

      festival to see us dance for the cranes?” Their faces

      shine, yes! Our teacher says, “We must ask the monks for

      permission because all festivals are held in their courtyards.”

      “Kuzu-zangpo la,” we say, greeting the monks. “Can you help us

      make a new festival with a dance for the cranes?”

      A monk named Sangay says, “Our dances have been

      performed the same way for centuries and each one takes hours

      of practice.”

      He sees our disappointment and his face slowly breaks

      into a smile. “Dancing to tell stories is part of our tradition,”

      he says, “but before we can help you make a crane

      dance, you must first watch the birds and learn

      from them.”