Osprey

Yellow orbs regard us from a gray anvil head as still as stone. It’s a broken wing rescue. We keep releasing it, but it comes back. The ranger looks bemused, the caged raptor swivels its focus as if reading sounds. We took him to a lake 50 miles away, by evening he was back. If I were that hawk I would rest my life upon the airy tops, and never look back - or would I? Maybe rather a small box after a long journey, Maybe a bonsai tree and a lesser sky?