Our Orchard Glen hosted three Great Horned Owls.
Murders of crows attacked each woodland perch,
no sanctuaries in our pagan church
Over my head today one of them scowls
           atop a leafless elm,
           and I am at my helm
cruising the Intracoastal Waterway,
           an osprey on my port
           fishing for food and sport,
cousins in our profound love for our prey.
I once wrote an osprey an elegy,
           dead on the forest floor
           when I was twenty-four,
a good beginner’s glimpse at poetry:

Fellow pilot, hunter and fisherman,
when you lie mantled in a robe of snow,
too weak to fly or fight, what famished beast
will strew the feathers at your funeral feast?