They float over the wide river, unwinding. 
These giant, bristled birds fold in their wings 

& dive feet-first, crushing into landscapes of 
freshwater. When they surface, their wings 

churn where the drifting river meets the air. 
Stunned as fish, we watch them, the cycle of 

their angling always ending in slow motion. 
Nests feathered with slanted branches rest 

high in trees. It is skeletal scenery planted here. 
Ospreys ferry back each shad that has carried, 

for the few short weeks of the run, an ocean
into the river. The rest of us can only watch 

from afar & false cast floating lines, dropping 
darts into cold columns where shad hold fast 

hugging the silt & pebbled bottom. Sometimes 
ospreys will fly so close you can see the burst 

of lavender on each bright fish. I once caught 
a shad that had three, red lines drawn on one 

side, all perfectly spaced. They were fresh. 
I made my fingers into talons & traced 

the same marks, holding my breath, while 
letting the fish slip out of my grasp. 

Photo courtesy of Jon Pineda