Where the Osprey Flies

While the run amok of the summer set was cities away from O’Bryan’s Bay, a weathered hull sat cockeyed on the mud of an expired tide; and the leaves — except for the evergreens — were setting sail. As the water returned, the weary osprey flapped down to his perch on a barren branch: black masked and taloned, the fish hawk studied the advancing flow while the angler came down. He was tall and gangly, his sandy hair graying at the sides: with his weathered blue denim tucked into suspendered green waders, the aged Dutchman had Jimmy Stewart’s profile. Fording the shoal from the clam-bubbling sand, the angler waved his willowy rod before pausing to patiently feed out the leader onto an advancing tide; and when the impermeable tan line reached his trembling hand, he ran the knot straight up through the guides, spooling out some manageable slack; then an upswing sent it all back. Whipping forward, the nine foot bamboo hummed through the still morning air, and a hookless fly winged its way toward the emerging bay. Enter the salmon (the silvery one), returning to shallows that seem familiar again. Backswing, then forward, and the fly kissed the calm; with a lunge and a flash, the prize struck at nuisance only to find feathery guile, splashing and thrashing to disgorge it. Seizing the opportunity, the bird crashed down — violently snatching the prey from its mistake, to flap away off to his nesting place. The angler smiled. * * * Waters away from the sliver of a bay, out its neck and up through the straights, under the bridge to the heart of Puget Sound, there’s a ferry that runs from Bainbridge Island to Seattle: coming or going, both ends the same, it’s a commuter’s barge, a haven for some. On each level of the shuttle, beige plastic tables jut halfway out into generous booths. Drawn together in one such stall was a cluster of five, with their common thread being a starting time, and more often than not, a lively dispute. “Your paper is gender biased,” said Annastacia Smith-Bouveret. “Maybe right wing, but we try to diversify,” Clayton replied, his confident eyes assessing the stylish figure of the blond public defender. “But your sources are usually male,” Annastacia was quick to point out, “and couldn’t care less when prostitutes are the victims.” “We go for the truth,” Clayton shot back, “quoting the actual players, regardless of race, faith or sexual orientation.” “So when did our esteemed press start printing the truth?” a well-dressed Leland piped up. “We actually try to get at the facts,” Clayton said, somewhat taken back.