Return to the River


“Osprey,” I said in my thoughts. “I’d like to see you again. Where are you, Osprey?”

And at that moment the osprey flew off the river-wind and into a maple tree. Without stopping, or even slowing, she tore off a branch and fastened it in her talons.

“For her nest,” I thought. “I’ll see where she lives.” And I followed her white back against the faded blue sky, kept my gaze on her without blinking, until she landed in a faint, beige mound atop a dock post. It’s privately owned, on the other side of the river. I hope they hear her sharp whistle, a sound like broken seashells, and know she is there.


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