Duet of Ospreys

A whole forest grows from 
the unconscious— surprising 

how fast things burgeon 
if unchecked, even those 

you didn't at first know or want
to know. Virginia creeper bolting

across the outer walls,
stipple of Japanese knotweed;

sneaky chains of ivy
staking claim. They shoot

up in more than threes: they herald
whole tribes of feeling, guests  

who arrive in summer then stay 
and stay. When water cascaded 

through the ceiling from toilet overflow,
you said I should't read for omens or

premonitions, or accuse planets
for the illusion of retrograde

motion. A body's never just
its gravity, even in descent. 

Once, high in the hills
we stopped to view the falls; 

ospreys, those birds easily
mistaken for eagles, burst

from the trees and made wide 
circles above banded rock.

I looked up the noun for a group 
of them and learned it is duet,

notwithstanding the high-
pitched sounds they make 

like teakettles on the boil. See, I do know
the difference between appearance 

and reality, between luck and work.  
I know one sound a blade can make 

as it clears the tangles, and another 
as it trembles and rings like a calling bell.

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