I thought for a second they were bowling pins
balanced on the bank of the drained reservoir
but they were so attentive
radiating a devout aura, a congregation
of little monks robed in light
soaking in the last rays of the sun
their brown-hued breasts 
filling with the day’s last warmth—
about twelve of them. 

We didn’t think we’d disturb them
since they seemed far enough away
on the opposite shore
but one started working the rusty hinge of his voice 

and they all gently took to the air, flying as one fabric
layering the valley with trombones
spiraling higher as they circled the reservoir
passing above us, lifting just enough
to thread an opening in the trees.

But what if we had been more patient
crouched on our haunches
in the shadows at the base of the trail
and attended the last light with them
felt the coolness come, the darkness, and when
they took off, unable to fully see them
listened to their wings
as they swept overhead and escaped
with that part of ourselves
no one can see