I'd like to go to a place where the sandhill cranes dance in the sunset. Thus far, my distractingly lovely avian festival experience peaked out at a southern California bird preserve in which a giant willow tree filled with murders upon murders of crows. The casual reader may not realize that a murder of crows is a deadly wonderful thing, with
a hootenanny worthy of song.
Sandhill cranes are really hip because they hang out in places like Nebraska and New Mexico. Although they have interesting plumage, I'll bet they never look in the mirror and think about thinning hairlines. I'll bet their guilty pleasures have nothing to do with "Turn the Beat Around" or science fiction novels or Miss Read or John Phillip Sousa.
I wonder how long they live--I'll have to consult my Bird's Almanac of Birds. Perhaps they don't have time to worry about things like ethnic sterotypes in Frank Meriweather novels or the problems of timing technology purchases.
I'd like to be able to take good pictures of the moon. That's a worthy goal, someday.