waterfront window
Marsha Owens
 
 with the turn of the season come the osprey,
her feathers whiter than his, both searching for
branches, practicing the ancient art of nest-building.
 
weeks will pass before they complete their work,
stacking sticks haphazardly one on top the other,
held together by excrement put to good use.
 
the fragile nest teeters atop the boat lift, same
home place as last year and the year before . . .
though i can’t be sure.
 
for all I know, these two could be squatters,
immigrants from upriver come to claim another’s
real estate because when eggs need nests, the nearest
home must be found. how could i know which bird
came first or last or in-between?
 
i can only say thank you for stopping to live nearby--
you, nestled high over the pier—me, earthbound.
we make good neighbors, i think. we both like to fish.