The river is full reaching almost to the top of the banks. Flowing quickly to the north. Catching the red willows, straight as arrows, flicking them forward until the spring back in a gracious whip. Green mud that mixes perfectly with the sky. Colours you only see at this time of year. A calendar without dates only sounds, bird calls, trickles and thunder. Smells like heat and moisture, the service berry ripening, some call Saskatoons, sweet, and the river running with high country snow and last nights rain.

The osprey doesn’t recognize me. It leaves its nest and circles above. Sizing, evaluating threat. I try to let it know we are old friends, but feel its distrust.

So often they would follow above as I walked the paths of bush to the lake. Back then it watched as my mind was on fish, railroad tracks, the spring in poplars, the wind putting a ripple on the water, just enough to obscure the weeds and fish swishing shadows, languid almost undetectable during calm, as I wondered how they saw their prey during a storm with a chop on the lake. Other than that I was oblivious most of the time, happy to roam the shore. A whistle would make me turn skyward or to a snag then back above to the railway and someone approaching. My signal to move along, to avoid the day being interrupted by the crudeness of conversation or worse, a scolding or beating. Once further down the shore or back under the canopy of bush the osprey would have followed. But I didn’t keep track back then.

The mosquitoes had me. Lifting me among the clouds. They buzz in my ears and around my nose, I shut my eyes and try not to swat, in case I am to fall from such a height. Above the river I can’t see the fish through the summer murk. The osprey still holds me in its eye, assessing, wary. Its wingspan and hooked beak, turbulent, knowing honour can put it at risk. I hope it can see through the chop on the surface, through time and hurt, even if I can’t.