I thought I saw an osprey
out of the corner of my eye—

the one from last summer
that flew most afternoons

west to east across the lake.
But all there was

was an empty sky.
That bird wanting

to feel the sun, the high
air, was memory.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 42 Number 6, on page 33
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https://newcriterion.com/issues/2024/2/osprey