The cranes flew over yesterday. High, grazing the bottom of the clouds, a score and more of slender shapes passed overhead, graceful and enormous. Their wild, trilling call caught my ear as I shoveled snow. I glanced up and saw the sandhill cranes for the first time in several years. The Siberian cold had finally driven them south, long after the geese and ducks had already fled for warmer lands. The brown shapes flew quickly past, looking for thick grain stubble and water.