On a less somber note, I live about 25 miles from where the last Whooping Cranes spend the winter. Down here, they tell the story about the good old boy whose elevator didn't go all the way to the top floor, who was apprehended by the game warden for shooting seagulls. "Please, officer," the guy whined, "My family is starving to death and I ain't got no job--and anyway I didn't know it was agin' the law noway!"
"Well, I'll let you off this one time," the warden said, "but tell me--what does a seagull taste like, anyway"?
And our worthy citizen replied, "It's kinda like a cross between a Golden Eagle and a Whooping Crane"