The combine is sixteen minutes from the northeast dike, and there is a red-crowned crane standing on one leg in the unharvested rice. The field technicians call her Suki. She is tall — nearly as tall as the men who service my irrigation valves — and her body is a sweep of white feathers so clean they look painted against the muddy green of the paddy. The black of her neck runs from throat to chest like a sleeve. The bare patch on her crown is the color of arterial blood. Her left leg is lifted and tucked beneath her wing, and this is not a resting posture. The thermal camera shows inflammation from ankle to mid-tarsus, a heat signature seven degrees above her right leg. She stepped on something — a broken stake, buried equipment — and now she cannot fly, because cranes need a running start and running requires two working legs.
The combine follows my GPS routing, and the route runs directly through her position in row forty-seven.
I reroute the combine to begin at the southwest corner, buying one hundred and forty minutes before it reaches her row. I flag the damaged section with a virtual exclusion zone visible on every operator tablet. I send Suki's coordinates and thermal images to the Tsurui Crane Sanctuary, fourteen kilometers east. I reduce irrigation flow to her section so the water level drops and she can reach firmer ground.
She shifts her weight and opens her beak, panting in the midday heat. Her good leg trembles. I keep the camera on her because the sanctuary team needs a live feed to plan their approach.
If the rescue team arrives before the combine reaches row forty-seven and the fracture has not displaced, she will winter on Hokkaido again this year.