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?
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