Many of my favorite mornings begin long before the rest of the world is awake. As the first hint of dawn touches the eastern sky, my faithful dog, Mikey, and I climb aboard my pontoon and ease away from the dock on my quiet Wisconsin lake. The water is often as smooth as glass, reflecting the colors of sunrise while a light mist drifts across its surface. We become quiet observers in nature’s awakening.
On this particular morning, an osprey settled on the weathered top of a dead tree, its talons gripping the old wood with effortless strength. For several moments it remained still, surveying the lake below with remarkable concentration.
Then, almost imperceptibly, it shifted its weight. Its powerful wings unfolded, catching the warm light of morning. In that instant the bird seemed suspended between stillness and motion, between the certainty of the branch beneath its feet and the invisible currents of air that would soon carry it away.
I pressed the shutter just before the osprey launched. A heartbeat later, the branch was empty and the bird was gliding above the lake. Looking at the photograph now, I realize that what moves me most is not the flight itself, but the brief moment before it—the gathering of strength, balance, and freedom just before release.
There is a kind of freedom that begins before we move: the moment we are ready to trust what will carry us.