 Hi, everyone. I have a story I'm going to read you right now titled, Songs for the Whooping Crane. I think you'll really like the pictures. Written by Eileen Spinelli. What's Whoopy Cranes nested on prairies and numbers you would be all day counting? Now they are one of the rarest birds in North America. In the far north, when October spills across the ice and the wind sweeps high, the wild whooping cranes fly. They fly south over cities, over silvery plains, through spattering sleet and wintery rains. Upon this brave journey, the frosty moon rise gleams. Come see. Step out from dabbled doorways and leave your dreams. At last, the crane's long, faithful flight is done. Below, the ponds and marshes sparkle in the sun. Can you see all the sparkles? Some cranes spiral from the clouds and some cranes skim. And one crane, look! Reckless with the light, dives downward on a whim. Today, they search for fish and snails. Can you see the fish? Some even have a playful flair for chasing dragonflies about or tossing wild berries in the air. They trumpet startling calls that fall on ears for miles around. By night, when stones reflect the scattered stars and dark falls deep, the whooping cranes wade into shallow pools and go to sleep. Some watchful ones may merely rest in shadowed hush, alert to fledgling splint of cry or hunter's bootsteps in the tangled brush. And now, the sweetest thing of all, they dance. They bow, they leap, they flap their wings, they prance in pairs or one by one, or as a flock, entire, bobbing, bobbing, graceful, heads up higher and higher. You see? Shadows. And then, when blossom scented April nears, the whooping cranes take off like feathered spears. Once more to northern nesting grounds they go, is be so.