“We have some visitors,” Carol said. “Come on out on the porch and you’ll see them.”

I should have guessed something was up when I heard several high-pitched screeches the evening before. Now the sky was brightening and the sun was about peek over the horizon across the bay. The waters of the Providence River were still, reflecting the orange clouds. It was going to be a beautiful day. The wind and the rain from the day before had cleared the air. You could feel it with every deep breath.

We weren’t alone. Blue herons, their crooked necks and bony legs outstretched wings like prehistoric birds  – at least like the ones you’ve seen in the movies – within feet of the shore. Cormorants disappeared as they dove for fish, popping to the surface 50 and 100 feet away 30 seconds later and then after a breather going again. I wondered, did they work in groups, corralling minnows into schools to be easily scooped up? I haven’t seen our resident kingfisher standing watch from atop the fence post at the bottom of the yard. Maybe he’s got a new home.

Carol wanted me to discover her surprise. She wasn’t going to tell me as we walked out into the yard.

I scanned the lawn, more weeds than grass, expecting to catch sight of the fox that visits in the early dawn or perhaps a skunk followed by a line of little ones.

“No, there,” she said pointing back in the direction of the house. “The tree.”

The gnarly, ancient maple that stands at the end of the drive reaches above our roof. When we bought the house in 1975 there was a trio of maples between us and our neighbors. Storms brought down branches and toppled the tree nearest the water. We had the other cut down, fearing it would succumb to the rot, fed upon by legions of black ants.

But this one giant maple survived, although its upper branches were dead and like bony fingers pointed north.

“There were three of them,” Carol said.

I looked, and perched regally were two Osprey. They were scanning the bay. A third was aloft, gaining altitude before soaring to hunt.  I’ve always enjoyed watching Ospreys, especially on early morning rows, which I hope to get back to. The birds patrolled a couple of hundred feet offshore and then abruptly gain altitude before nearly coming to a stop, beating their wings to hover. Frequently they would resume their search, but on occasion they would fold their wings and drop with a splash to emerge with a fish in their talons.

This was great. We would be able to sit on our porch and watch the show. Perhaps, like the late Dave Chartier, the bird photographer whose work appeared in these pages for so many years I would capture an image of an Osprey with a fish as it winged back to its nest. In one of Dave’s remarkable shots, an Osprey carried a menhaden in each claw. He was so excited, he drove straight from Apponaug Cove, one of his photo stations, to show me on the business-card sized screen on his Nikon.

I took out my phone and took a couple shots of the perched Osprey perched to send to the kids and returned to the porch in a cacophony of chirps and screeches. Maybe this was the hunting call.

Later that morning, feeling rewarded by the experience and ready to address the issues of the day, I got behind the wheel and pulled out of the drive. Once on West Shore Road, I checked the rear-view mirror. I could barely see a thing. It was streaked white.

It brought new meaning that neighbors can be for the birds.