Old Crane Woman still sits on her egg. Not long to go now, she mutters to herself as she sighs, and stretches her cramped, folded legs. Just one more day to go.Old Crane Woman is singing. Shoulders hunched, long neck arched back into the night sky, Old Crane Woman is singing. Can you hear her? Old Crane Woman is singing up a storm. See the rainclouds begin to gather, forming up to march across the new crescent moon? See the wind holding its breath, the sea holding back the tide? Old Crane Woman is longing for a storm. A storm that quakes in the body of the earth, a storm that bursts the banks of the rivers, a storm that whips up tsunamis at sea.
Old Crane Woman is singing up a storm, and the wind is singing with her. Put on your rainclothes, gather your children, build your arks. Such a storm it will be.
The storm’s name is revolution. Old Crane Woman is singing up a revolution.
Old Crane Woman is hatching an egg in the storm of revolution.
Old Crane Woman has gathered her sisters in the nest of revolution. What is she hatching?