|Osprey on far right middle limb.|
Here I sit my last few moments on this deck, a deck on which I've spent a myriad of moments alone and with, in silence and conversation while writing, reading, watching, sunning, eating and drinking. I have spent a multitude of hours in communion here.
On the first day of this our last trip an osprey, a juvenile, sat in the nearest tree. It sat all morning, calling, probably calling 'Come feed me' the wildlife specialist said. I had called an area sanctuary in case this particular bird needed rescue.
It sat out in the tree for most of the morning, flapping about, stretching its wings in bird yoga it seemed. The specialist said more than likely it had just left the nest.
Meanwhile back on this deck, I have sat for most summers over the span of twenty-five years. I first came here two days after leaving the nest of a marriage to a man who was dear but should have remained my friend. I said "I do" to him before learning the value of saying "I do" to myself.
Like the young osprey, I came here free yet uncertain still wanting to be fed. Over the years Ole River's salt water, the sun's path, bird kin and human friends have fed me. Yet it has only been in the last few years that I've realized how to more fully feed myself, how to let down the gates within and let experience in.
On this last day, the osprey calls but it is nowhere to be seen. It has left the tree and is further down the island. It has surely left the nest but not the salt water from which it will be fed.
On this last day, my friends and I prepare to leave this nest, this place of so many shared moments and though we will I suspect return to the water we will never return to this exact place.
This moment reminds me this is how each moment of life really is. Plans are made with quiet expectations yet no guarantees. This is life - precious, poignant, beautiful and bittersweet.
-Dawn, The Good News Muse 11 September 2012