A bird in the hand is surely worth two in the bush, that goes without saying. But what about a crane in the sky, as they use to say in Russia? It's a striking difference. I look at the fat titmouse in my fist. It squeaks and flutters half-heartedly, casting sly expectant glances at me. I heave a sigh and let the bird go, then look up. The crane isn't waiting, it never was.