Does an osprey shit in a tree?

I have not been in much of a camera flow lately but still managed to click off a few frames yesterday. Pictures await us everywhere. I left my house early and performed my first daily check on the mother hawk to be, still waiting patiently in the nest if not somewhat grumpily. I've never hatched a brood, what do I know? I took a quick shot with my 300mm. At the distance it was deficient but until the little hawklings hatch I didn't feel like switching to the 400mm.

I snapped the pretty thread rack at Manor Cleaners in the morning, the place I take my expensive silk shirts that none of the other boys can afford.

Anyway as I said, I just haven't been in a picture taking mode.

Yesterday was pay bills day, never a happy moment, although I was eager to see if there would be anything left when I was finished. My Verizon bill had effectively doubled, that new plan that was supposed to help me cut costs so much.

I wandered next door to the Brandon Gallery where they were setting up for their new show and gabbed a little bit with Penny, Kathy and the other women installing the artwork.

On the way home I saw a somewhat rare visitor in the valley, an osprey in a far off sycamore tree. I clicked a couple shots from the window but the distance was far too great to get anything sharp. I did get a first for me, a picture of an osprey crapping, thank you so much.

What happened next was one of those horrible chains of events.

I opened the trunk and got my new Bogen tripod out, the one the 400mm was mounted to. It has taken a little getting used to, lots of squirrelly
settings and adjustments. Doesn't seat quite right.

I set the damn thing up and went back to the car to retrieve my camera.

The next thing I knew, the next sound I heard,was the super expensive lens detaching itself from the tripod ball head by its own volition and flying through the air and then crashing to the ground.

I stared in stupefied amazement, unable to move for several seconds, the horrible deed done. Two thousand dollar nikon lens, lying in the dirt, check. My friend's lens no less.

I finally mustered my strength and reached down to pick it up and save for a minor owee on the lens flare shield everything seemed to be no worse for wear. I looked up in the tree and of course my quarry the osprey was now nowhere to be seen. Was there a causal relationship between my chronicling the raptor's most intimate business and the resultant catastrophe? That will take a wiser mind than mine to decipher.

Leslie came home and made us dinner and then walloped me at gin rummy three games running. Some days it just doesn't pay to get up.