Osprey

Parasols, sombreros, heads beneath;
sunburned bodies on the beach. Orchestras
in the zephyr, when they play cantinela

de antiguo with violins and saxophones,
trombones. I lean over the balustrade
of the veranda, I think I can barely see

where sky crowns water as I move
my spoon in the cappuccino: circles, lines
that fade, ripples that quake. I study

my kingdom, the way the wind carries spice
and gazanias, ripe tangerines, the way
the sky burns, color de amarillo

y rojo, at dawn; why it won't stop, why
it keeps its paradise pink colour.
Look past Nerja, its cliffs unfolding

into the sea, I say, to the osprey—
Do you notice the feeling of history
that brushes your wings; of history

which trumpets through the air?