The Ospreys View
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491_9780692561942
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A ten-foot wooden motorboat swerved around, negotiating with difficulty the rapidly-racing current of the Roanoke River, when the shortest of three men crowded in lost his footing and, thereby, control of his tiller. The second man was flung into the bottom of the boat, and the third man, the tallest, was thrown backward, slamming into the gunwale before sliding broken-backed into the swift, cold water.How in hell did this happen? Did the boat crash into a submerged rock? Did it collide with an underwater cypress stump?Sixteen seconds earlier, perched atop the tallest cypress in the Conine Swamp beside the Roanoke, the deepest and swiftest river on the Eastern Seaboard, a two-year-old mother osprey spied a weather-beaten motorboat buzzing south directly toward her. Far, far below her perch, the tea-colored waters of the majestic swamp oozed out into the river’s battercake-colored waters. This ancient river carried melted snow from the mountains of Virginia and valuable topsoil from the farmlands of Virginia and North Carolina down to and through the Albemarle Sound on its way to the Atlantic Ocean. In spring, the swift current pulled even the normally stagnant waters around the tannin-soaked roots of the swamp’s lacy cypress trees into its race to the sea.An area of the bird’s brain might have concerned itself with her two nestlings only twenty feet away, alone in their nest on top of a less-tall cypress. However, at this moment her eyes were focused on a small boat overloaded with three men fishing as they puttered down-river near the swampy shoreline. She may not have recognized the men as humans, or even cared what they were. However, she did recognize their catch—fresh, live fish collected in a large bucket as the perfect lunch for her two babies.She streaked down, looking neither left nor right, and snatched a lively striped bass from the rusty fishing bucket, then soared up to her nest with the fish wriggling in her talons. The ospr
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