Birders are like old monks
from another life,
still in formation,
still shy. They
can’t seem to break the habit
of silence, to rise early,
to hope.

They gather in the cold
by a lake and then
just stand there, quietly
and stare out 
into the darkness.

They love what can’t be
improved on,
first light, bird song,
the perfect hydraulics
of the crane’s legs
that fold back
in a shower of water
as their great wings
lift them all
into the morning sky.

Among these curious,
no reckless enthusiasm.
(It’s not a football game.)
The older ones too frail
for the cold,
watch from their cars
until the birds are out of sight.

That’s it.

The lake water still trembling,
but empty.

One or two
might have taken pictures,
their only show
of attachment.