a dozen of us with cameras and binoculars
and climbed up the rusty bridge
cold in December, two lanes of cracked asphalt
that scraped our shoes
and echoed in the silence below us.


By dusk we could make out their graceful forms
gliding from a streak of pink,
feathers catching golden sparkles
through maple branches,
the air still, each bird eye clear.


As they landed on the water,
the river shimmered...