an old writer and his words

The osprey sits atopthe light pole on the streetalongside the small lake.His morning songis enchanting, but as weapproach, he pauses itand stares down.Is he staring at the lakeseeing the motionof a fish soon to becomehis next meal?That would makesense, but he seemsinstead to be staringat me as I walk byand I have to wonderif he…