Morning

Each day of the week feels a little different: I like walking the lake on early Sunday mornings best.  The water calm, crowds thin, voices subdued.  Fog rising.  Air still, sweet with balsam.  Flocks of geese flapping their wings, testing flight in droves near the shoreline.  A rag tag urban family of ducks following one another down the path to the water.  The lakeshore lined with fishermen, lines in the water, nothing biting.  Paddle boarders out in the middle; one crew team rowing, the accompanying motor boat send the occasional volley of waves across the water.  Quiet.

A feral duck breaks the silence, a nasal call for her hatchlings to join her.  They do, and the group heads into a overhanging grove of trees.  Above a circling bird, slows and drops down to the water, comes up empty.  Circles and repeats.  Eventually rises with a fish hanging from it's talons, passing three times above me, each time higher, then off to a nest.  An osprey (fish eagle.) 

Lots of baby crows, but no attacks.

The crowds slowly increase, and the morning has passed.  Almost time to get to rehearsal.  Calm now then shattered with the stressful bus ride.  Cherish it where it's found.