A 100 yards down the fairway a plateau rises.
    `Yellow flag waves from the top.  We see something nearby.

Not a clamor of freshly fallen seagrape leaves,
    nor a frenzy of lime slices sliding into a cold drink,
        no tumult of leftover spinach from yesterday’s lunch.
We realize a moving assembly of birds feast and pray,
    gather to sip from cart path puddles.

Each in an emerald tunic, small beige hood,
    accented by cerulean
        tail feathers like an almost hidden cincture
            touches the ground.

We recognize this sacred order near our game.  
    Peaceful, they remain oblivious to flying golf balls,
        mowing machines,
            curses and missed putts.