found in public domain
Short bursts high pitched, like ” Ee-eee”.
I thought it was the ring necked pheasant
the sound closer,
Then we saw her,
Slowly gliding over our heads, like this photo I found,
Her feathery fingers grabbing the wind bumps we cannot see.
She hovered over us
And we looked at each other.
“Hi Betsy,” was all we could say.
I had just told Fred the other day that Mom would be an osprey, not an eagle,
She wrote the letter
All those years ago.
The osprey returned
Had a hand in that.