A rainbow trout drifted by, fins kicking feebly against the wind-swept ripples. The little fish rolled on its side, then righted again, dorsal fin and tail breaking the surface. As I rowed my boat toward the south shore of East Lake, I watched the little guy as he finned in the opposite direction. Sometimes a thin silver-blue line against the deep green of the lake, sometimes a white belly as he gave way to his injuries. I was not the only one watching.
A hundred feet above the water, an Osprey flew, loafing on wind currents, the epicenter of the circle he drew directly above the hapless trout. Abruptly, the bird stopped, beating his wings against the air, breaking out of his circle to plunge, wings folded. The bird hurtled toward the water, reaching out just before he splashed down, talons extended. There was an explosion of water droplets, then the bird rising, wings churning, plucking the fish from the surface in a spray of foam. Then he lifted away, beating water from his wings to gain altitude and I watched his flight back to the summer home in the treetops.