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First Osprey, April 16
Pandion haliaetus carolinensis
Osprey, who dares
plunder the eagle and wins
we pause every time to watch
your casual crook-winged beat up the sky
mackerel gleaming in the talons of
your nonchalance.
As my son once explained to me
you have to be born to be cool.
There was nothing casual about
the gale that yesterday screamed through here
shaking our bridge, plucking it like a lyre
licking hungry at the causeway
battering cowering houses with
waves of such awe that fishing boats stayed on their moorings, every one.
Not just their women, but sea-crusted men
spent the hours stealing glances over their shoulder.
We crept to our beds, shut windows to keep the deluge out
slept fitfully, wholly unable to block the ocean’s roar
the answering grinding moan of beach rocks in the dark.
Born cloudy, cool of its own sort
breezy morning finds us, all over the island
busying ourselves packing lunches
doing up breakfast dishes, gossiping over power outages
pausing to survey the gear going with us.
I imagine I hear ospreys
calling to each other
that unmistakable piercing whistle
I want so fiercely that I step outside
where they are circling overhead
calling, soaring
in signature
arrival.