Cantu explains.
“A
what
?” we want to know.
“A long bamboo trumpet made by Australian aborigines,” Ms. Cantu says.
We don’t even ask what “aborigines” are.
“I wanted to listen to piano music,” Dad says.
“Everyone likes piano music, Homero. You’ve got to be more adventurous. Try new things once in a while.”
“I guess you’re right,” Dad says to Ms. Cantu. Then he turns to me. “Come on, Lina. Time to go home.”
“Don’t forget your little gift.” Ms. Cantu hands my dad something.
“What’s that?” Vanessa asks.
“This?” My dad shows it to us. “Your mom gave me a CD with Native American music.”
“They make wonderful sounds with animal bones.”
“I can hear the coyote already,” Dad says.
“Or a fox,” Ms. Cantu adds. “A
silver
fox.”
Did I hear correctly? Did Ms. Cantu say silver fox? Maybe I’m wrong, but my guts are screaming—she thinks my dad’s been writing
those poems!
I bite my lower lip. Every muscle in my body tightens up. No
cascarón
could survive my clenched fist. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Ms. Cantu winking at my dad and Vanessa with the biggest
smile.
Perro que no camina no encuentra hueso –
The dog that doesn’t walk doesn’t find the bone
16
Kidnapped Eggs
T he next morning, my dad, Vanessa, and I head to Aransas Pass Wildlife Refuge. It’s a cloudy day, the air cool enough for sweaters
but not coats. I hope it doesn’t rain.
At the entrance to the refuge is a visitors’ center and a gift shop. I buy a refrigerator magnet with a picture of a whooping
crane and a bookmark with a bobcat.
Then we drive to the observation tower and walk to the top, where telescopes are mounted on poles.
“When whooping cranes are born,” the park ranger says, “they’re reddish-orange, but they grow up to be white, with a little
black on their wingtips and tails, and with red ‘caps’ on their heads. They always have twins, but the parents ignore the
weaker chick. So scientists started kidnapping the extra eggs and putting them in the nests of sandhill cranes, a bird that
eats the same kind of food. Sandhill cranes take care of
all
their babies.” He points to the water. “There they are. Right at the top of that bend.”
I follow his pointing finger to two spots in the water. I can’t see any details because they’re too far. I try the telescope
and move it around until… there!… whooping cranes. Two.
One of the birds is bent over the water, searching. Then its beak darts forward and comes back with a fish. The movement is
fast—like the jump-back movement of a yo-yo. The bird lifts its head, points to the sky, and lets the fish slide down its
throat. Then it flaps its wings in a happy way.
The second bird’s standing close by. It’s very still and alert like a guard dog.
“Well? What do you see?” Vanessa asks.
“One just caught a fish.”
“Did you know whooping cranes mate for life?” the ranger says.
We didn’t know, so we shake our heads.
“Ah,” my dad says, “so they understand. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge
of doom.”
“That’s really beautiful,” Vanessa says. “I bet you know a lot of love poems.”
She winks at me, but instead of winking back, I make the sign for “zip it.”
I look through the telescope again. After a few moments, the birds walk a little. Jason’s right. Their legs are long—very
long. And skinny. But somehow they manage to walk without tripping over themselves. In fact, they look graceful.
Soon they disappear around the bend.
“They’re gone,” I say.
“You can still see them if you want,” the ranger says. “We’ve got a trail down there. But you’ve got to be quiet. They’ll
fly off if they hear you.”
He points to the trailhead. I look at my dad, and he nods.
Before we head out, I check the camera to make sure the batteries are working. Then I grab the notepad and three
“A
what
?” we want to know.
“A long bamboo trumpet made by Australian aborigines,” Ms. Cantu says.
We don’t even ask what “aborigines” are.
“I wanted to listen to piano music,” Dad says.
“Everyone likes piano music, Homero. You’ve got to be more adventurous. Try new things once in a while.”
“I guess you’re right,” Dad says to Ms. Cantu. Then he turns to me. “Come on, Lina. Time to go home.”
“Don’t forget your little gift.” Ms. Cantu hands my dad something.
“What’s that?” Vanessa asks.
“This?” My dad shows it to us. “Your mom gave me a CD with Native American music.”
“They make wonderful sounds with animal bones.”
“I can hear the coyote already,” Dad says.
“Or a fox,” Ms. Cantu adds. “A
silver
fox.”
Did I hear correctly? Did Ms. Cantu say silver fox? Maybe I’m wrong, but my guts are screaming—she thinks my dad’s been writing
those poems!
I bite my lower lip. Every muscle in my body tightens up. No
cascarón
could survive my clenched fist. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Ms. Cantu winking at my dad and Vanessa with the biggest
smile.
Perro que no camina no encuentra hueso –
The dog that doesn’t walk doesn’t find the bone
16
Kidnapped Eggs
T he next morning, my dad, Vanessa, and I head to Aransas Pass Wildlife Refuge. It’s a cloudy day, the air cool enough for sweaters
but not coats. I hope it doesn’t rain.
At the entrance to the refuge is a visitors’ center and a gift shop. I buy a refrigerator magnet with a picture of a whooping
crane and a bookmark with a bobcat.
Then we drive to the observation tower and walk to the top, where telescopes are mounted on poles.
“When whooping cranes are born,” the park ranger says, “they’re reddish-orange, but they grow up to be white, with a little
black on their wingtips and tails, and with red ‘caps’ on their heads. They always have twins, but the parents ignore the
weaker chick. So scientists started kidnapping the extra eggs and putting them in the nests of sandhill cranes, a bird that
eats the same kind of food. Sandhill cranes take care of
all
their babies.” He points to the water. “There they are. Right at the top of that bend.”
I follow his pointing finger to two spots in the water. I can’t see any details because they’re too far. I try the telescope
and move it around until… there!… whooping cranes. Two.
One of the birds is bent over the water, searching. Then its beak darts forward and comes back with a fish. The movement is
fast—like the jump-back movement of a yo-yo. The bird lifts its head, points to the sky, and lets the fish slide down its
throat. Then it flaps its wings in a happy way.
The second bird’s standing close by. It’s very still and alert like a guard dog.
“Well? What do you see?” Vanessa asks.
“One just caught a fish.”
“Did you know whooping cranes mate for life?” the ranger says.
We didn’t know, so we shake our heads.
“Ah,” my dad says, “so they understand. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge
of doom.”
“That’s really beautiful,” Vanessa says. “I bet you know a lot of love poems.”
She winks at me, but instead of winking back, I make the sign for “zip it.”
I look through the telescope again. After a few moments, the birds walk a little. Jason’s right. Their legs are long—very
long. And skinny. But somehow they manage to walk without tripping over themselves. In fact, they look graceful.
Soon they disappear around the bend.
“They’re gone,” I say.
“You can still see them if you want,” the ranger says. “We’ve got a trail down there. But you’ve got to be quiet. They’ll
fly off if they hear you.”
He points to the trailhead. I look at my dad, and he nods.
Before we head out, I check the camera to make sure the batteries are working. Then I grab the notepad and three
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