Keeping their usual April schedule,
the ospreys transport this year’s nest makings
to their long-time family homestead —
the day marker on the riprap at Green Hammock Ledge.
As we ready our boat, they do some flyovers,
carrying a stick or two at a time,
angled like the hands of a clock that’s been set
to avoid the engine of their own beating wings.
Soon after the new nest is made, fledglings
emerge with their squalling cries, mad for meat.
They grow bigger and more beautiful, ignoring the winds
that rattle their nest, the pouring rains that wash their feathers.
May all the ospreys survive the coming seasons.
Next April we’ll look for them, and we’ll say,
"We’ve known your family for five generations.
Remember us? We knew you when you were little."