Back home in WePo after the long, glorious, perfect-sizzling-sunny-summer-beach-weather weekend in Paradise, aka Montauk. Early-morning breakfast/exercise routine out there was the same for me every day: Hop on my bike (actually, Matt’s bike; his is way better than mine and he was away in Iceland, fcol); ride across Napeague Meadow; cruise Cranberry Hole Road into Amagansett; glance over at chi-chi Mary’s Marvelous, where the line is
out the door; pedal past too-cool-for-school Jack’s Coffee, where the line is out the door, and then some; wind up at good old Luz’s Deli — no line — for my egg-and-cheese and iced coffee. Excuse me: not every day. One day I headed east, to Montauk, instead of west, to Amagansett. Destination: Coffee Tauk. Beautiful ride. Literally blew into town, with the prevailing easterlies at my back. (Knew instantly the ride home wouldn’t be pretty.) Very nice bathroom, btw, at
C-Tauk. Wound up at the same spot again late that night, for gelato. One scoop chocolate, one scoop espresso. De-lish. Not crowded, either — and I’d like it to stay that way. So let’s keep this entre nous.
But I digress. What I really wanted to talk about was the osprey nest.
Every time I bike along Napeague Meadow Road, I check in on Momma Osprey, who’s watching over her brood from her perch atop the man-made pole. But on this particular morning, the nest was gone. And the perch was drooping. I immediately came up with 5 possible explanations:
2. Momma Osprey took the thing down herself
3. The Family Osprey felt it was time to upgrade to a more fashionable neighborhood, and relocated to a telephone pole 50 yards closer to East Hampton
4. The downed perch was intended as a signal to aliens — like the Nazca Lines in Peru
5. It just broke
I haven’t discussed this conundrum with my family, for obvious reasons. Carol would give me her look that says: On the planet where you’re from, people really care about these things? Greg, ditto — but worse. Robby will not be reading past the first line of this post, once he realizes there’s no picture of Ricky. And Matt? Matt might actually care. Might.
Anyway, I care. Deeply. And I guess that’s what makes the Beagle Man the Beagle Man.
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