Ospreys (Sonnet)

    Ospreys circle round and round in never

ending spiral curls. Their watchful eye-gaze

pierces threads of contrail clouds, forever

thick and wild. Above the cedar hills, maze

    of trees will shoot the sky in early spring,

to root and rise for primrose light or bloom

and seek the shady night 'till morning bing

of colors bright, washes rocks in costume

    shades of red and livid blue, that remake

the trip below, in crust and mantle

born in hue of magma melt, quake

of plates in shift erupt—then settle,

    on earth we walk with fine-made creatures,

    born white-stars of cycled natures.