Sawtooth Spire Here are the holy birds

Upon emerging, he is not alone.

He would be forgiven for misreading his company as a contortion of shadow. At this distance, they are a mirage, a sable illusion fixed in posture, deceived only by two blue moons that loom for him.

He solicits them with a melodic coo.

Will they fold back into the safety of their shadows? Or fly off to reconvene with their murder of crows?

He is moored upon the bank in wait.