The osprey understands the physics of falling
feet-first—talons snatching at soft bellies
shifting beneath the murky surface—and emerging with
nothing save a spray of salt. Mottled wings row
a steady beat, breaking the shallows’ grasp and carving
a tight trajectory clear into the clouds. Its ochre eyes
sight a second flicker of shadowed water. Later,
briny morsels dangling from the hooked grin,
the osprey whistles, tips a beady wink:
the trick, madame, is always being hungry.
A most unapologetic predator.