Inland Island

The mother osprey spies the geese,

a pair of horns with wings.

As they fly away, already a half-mile in another direction,

she drops a small catfish into the nest for her children,

before letting the wind catch her wings,

before soaring downriver.

Soon, the other birds will be coming home for spring,

heading north to the hill country.

The biggest bird in the sky —

a plane headed toward Nashville,

hovering over our rolling land —

flies south.

Quickly. Away from me.

The cumulus clouds of mid-morning

are nothing compared to the smoke

of the controlled burn in the national forest,

all gray and white and beige.

The center, almost yellow-orange,

casts a pink glow over the water.

And it’s not even sunrise,

so the only light we’re seeing is

the reflection of the flames.