A summer lullaby and an osprey's visit

The hawk is gone for good, if I had to guess.

He’s been such a regular and has been missing for two nights now. It was such a comfort, sitting on the deck the evening I spotted his silhouette in that old snag. Up near the top on a dry drooping branch that hardly seemed sturdy enough to hold him. But he liked it. Whatever his reason, he made it his go-to perch each night. How did he not tumble off?

I have since learned he could balance because of tiny cords called flexor tendons that pull tight when he lands and bends his legs. This action curls his talons around the wood and locks his feet effortlessly in place. The lock automatically opens when he straightens his legs, loosening his tendons to lift off in flight. Rough bumps on the bottom of his feet act as extra insurance, creating friction against the branch.

I don't know how long the hawk had been roosting in our backyard tree. I first noticed him on July 15 in the summer twilight. For three weeks, he faithfully appeared. Sometimes I would catch him still on his branch in the early morning. Usually, he was already off on his day's pursuits. I wondered where he went and what exactly this handsome feathered drone saw from up high in the sky.

Of course, it was ridiculous, but one night I got the idea to sing him a lullaby. I knew he could hear me. It became our ritual. I liked to think he was taking comfort from my presence, as I was from his. When our daughter arrived for a 10-day visit, she joined me each evening to sit with the hawk. I knew she, too, felt a companionship with this bird.

One night we were watching when he flew to his branch with dinner in his talons. I picked up the binoculars for a closer look. It was hard to distinguish in the near dark. Whatever it was, he was feasting while balancing in place. Finally, I caught the shape of a finned tail. “It's a big fish!” I exclaimed.

That's when my hawk became an osprey. I know full well what an osprey, also known as a fish hawk, looks like. But in the dark and the way it sat on the branch, I hadn't gotten a clear look at its white underside. Obviously, I flunked out as a budding naturalist.

Four nights ago, there was a shift. Two ospreys overnighted in the snag. I surmised my osprey's mate was now off the nest and had joined him. She was not as comfortable with my presence. The next day, from the kitchen window, I spotted both of them in the tree in full light. I went out to see them. One bobbed its head several times, then flew away with a high-pitched cry. Soon after, the other was gone, and neither has returned.

I like to think my osprey was calling goodbye. I will look for him again next year. For now, his seasonal work is done. The kiddos are grown and flown. He's got a long trip to Mexico and beyond with his mate by his side.

I may have been landlocked on the deck, not equal to an across-the-border migration, but just possibly I gave him a bit of connection as he rested from his labors on those warm summer nights. Who knows? My lullaby might even echo: “Bless this house O Lord we pray; Make it safe by night and day …” Yes, He did; He gave me my own guardian osprey.

Carol Shirk Knapp is the author of “The Preacher’s Kid” column.