We could watch for hours, transfixed. In Catholic theology, one must be disposed to grace to receive it. We are disposed.
We sit in our beach chairs as if watching some grand production at La Scala as the osprey (they call it fish hawk here) patrols the shore, watching the bird as intently as it watches the breaking waves for that flash of silver that is dinner.
The long glide, for a hundred yards along the pulsing tide, sailing the wind, not a wingbeat, now and then, perhaps, a slight tip of feathers, a faint navigational nudge. And now! The brake! The great wings move, scull the air in fierce, quick strokes. The bird backs and banks. And dives. Apparently as heavy as a stone.
A fish? Not this time. The osprey resumes its weightless flight. To the end of the beach and back again. We have the sense that it is aware of its audience, appreciates our appreciation, stitches our sky with its luminous embroidery with the same mutuality as Placido Domingo might regale his opera fans.
No augmentation necessary. An act so pure, so artful, such a fine-honed balance of wing and wind that one whispers a heartfelt word of gratitude. Grace. Grace is everywhere.