NATURE Poem: Osprey, by Ray Simon

Your left-wing dips.
You drift over sea stacks to circle back;

kite on a string attached to a spring.
Always the same game.

Your sleek beak, M’-shaped body
passes back and forth

my sea salt clouded windows;
hypnotic relief from the silly

rise and fall of stocks and bonds.
You soothe my sky-high vexation,

my groans over the pesky, hovering,
buzzing neighbor’s drone.

You put a smile on my face,
give me cause to mute my phone

and officially decree that it’s teatime,
popping a bottle of Cabernet.

I sip, time suspended
for when your Batman-like mask

comes back around, knowing you
are determined to feed your babies.

I bet the bank, your brown irises
will plunge into the drink, snatch a fish

I’ll see squiggling in your black talons’ spicules,
eventually disappearing

into slipping, sinking, pink sun.
You’ll figure it out.

You and I — remarkably similar.
No matter the predicament,

we always deliver for our families.
And you never flap your wings

or cheep cheep for attention.
Never spread mine while I ran

a company, and I never squawked
when fear crept in. Would I ever

be hired again or have to reassemble
pieces of my life for my sons and wife?

Never was fired, never laid off—
like Pavlov’s bell, we answer duty’s call.

Even when we lived freely,
floating between places and things,

we still demanded a punch list;
tendencies towards consistency.

We always figure it out.
Next week, I’ll pour wine

into a yellow bowl at cliff’s edge,
overlooking the drink,

where wild, orange daisies grow.
I’ll watch from my windows,

ignoring my neighbor’s drone
figure-eights, with a smile on my face,

glass in hand, waiting for you to grab
and clutch the surprise catch;

a black cod flopping about.
A slight twist to the same endless game.