Alone in a family between the hawks and the falcons, the osprey, unlike those numerous tribes, has but one genus, one species.—ROGER TORY PETERSON, “The Endangered Osprey”THEY LAY ON THE MATTRESS on the floor of Roddy’s shed. An old upright aluminum fan buzzed and whirred and blew out the sound of the crickets. Roddy lay on his back, stretched long, longer than the mattress, hands crossed behind his head. Suzy curled in toward his body, head in the crook of his underarm, knees at his hip, finger tracing the length of his torso, collarbone to pelvis, shoulder to hip bone. She ran her fingers along the scar on his side, her eyes closed.“I never worked at a sawmill,” he said.“Huh?” She opened her eyes.“I didn’t get it working at a sawmill.”“I guess I figured.” She closed her eyes again. She lay very still, just the fingers, tracing.He was quiet a long while.He hadn’t intended to tell her. He’d intended to tell no one. But none of this was foreseeable, and circumstances dictated their own imperatives.
