Osprey Breakfast Drama, Owl Wisdom, and One Kitten Who Preferred Sand - May 31, 2026

Finnegan had me up early this morning.

And by “up early,” I mean the kind of early where the birds are just beginning to stretch their wings, the coffee has not yet reached my bloodstream, and my kitten has already decided that sleeping in is not part of our shared life plan.

So, naturally, I grabbed my 600mm lens, packed up my new drone, loaded Finn into the car, and headed out to a local university on Vancouver Island to check on the osprey family.

Because apparently, this is who I am now.

Some people wake up early and make pancakes. I wake up early and go looking for large fish-eating raptors nesting on stadium lights.

And honestly? Best decision ever.

When Finn and I first arrived, the osprey were nowhere to be seen.

The stadium light nest looked quiet. The sky looked empty. The morning had that still, waiting feeling, like nature was holding its breath before the show began.

I stood there with my camera, scanning the sky, wondering if maybe I had arrived too late or too early.

And then—

**BAM.**

An adult osprey and a juvenile suddenly flew overhead.

One moment there was nothing, and the next there were these magnificent wings cutting across the sky. Long, powerful, angled wings with that unmistakable osprey shape, almost gull-like from a distance, but much more commanding. The adult moved with confidence, while the juvenile followed with that slightly awkward, learning-the-ropes energy that young birds often have.

Then I saw it.

The juvenile had a fish clutched in its talons. Breakfast had arrived. Or, more accurately, breakfast had been successfully acquired during what looked like a very important life lesson.

I realized I was watching something incredible: a parent osprey teaching its youngster how to fish, how to carry prey, and how to become the kind of bird that will one day rule the sky with confidence.

The juvenile landed on the stadium light structure near the nest and began enjoying its hard-earned breakfast. Its white chest caught the morning light, contrasting beautifully with the dark brown markings along its wings and back. There is something so striking about osprey colouring, that clean white underside, the chocolate-brown wing patterning, and the bold dark eye stripe that makes them look permanently focused, like tiny feathered warriors with excellent eyeliner.

Meanwhile, up in the nest, the siblings were not exactly offering polite congratulations.

There was squabbling.

There was noise.

There was the unmistakable energy of, “Excuse me, where is my fish?”

At one point, one of the juveniles popped its head over the side of the nest with a look that clearly said:

**Are you going to share or what?**

I laughed out loud.

Siblings.

Human, bird, or otherwise, apparently breakfast jealousy is universal.

Did You Know?

Juvenile osprey might look like confident sky warriors once they leave the nest, but they are still teenagers in training. After fledging, they often continue depending on their parents while they practice the very serious osprey art of fishing. So when I saw the young osprey flying with a fish in its claw, I wasn’t just watching breakfast, I was watching independence in progress. And judging by the sibling drama in the nest, I was also watching the osprey version of, “Mom said it’s my turn!”

While the juvenile enjoyed its fish and the nest drama continued, one of the parent osprey circled overhead.

I managed to get some shots as it soared through the sky, wings stretched wide, body suspended on air like it belonged to the clouds more than the earth.

There is something deeply moving about watching an osprey circle above you. They are both fierce and graceful, powerful and delicate. Their wings seem too long for their bodies until you see them in flight, and then everything makes sense. Every feather has a purpose. Every movement is precise.

Eventually, the parent landed on another stadium pole away from the nest.

And I swear, it had the energy of:

**Nope. I will not be participating in the tiny fish custody battle. Thank you very much.**

Too funny.

Sometimes the wisest thing a parent can do is deliver the lesson, supervise from a distance, and avoid the breakfast chaos.

Osprey have always felt like messengers of focus and trust.

They dive with incredible precision. They commit fully. They do not hover over life forever wondering if they should try. They watch, they wait, and when the moment is right, they act.

Today, the osprey felt like a message about learning, independence, and trusting the process.

The juvenile with the fish reminded me that growth often looks awkward before it looks graceful. We learn by trying. We learn by carrying something heavy. We learn by making noise, landing imperfectly, and figuring things out one attempt at a time.

The parent osprey circling above felt like a reminder that guidance does not always mean hovering too closely. Sometimes love means giving someone enough space to practice using their own wings.

And maybe, just maybe, the parent on the far stadium pole was also spiritually reminding me: You do not have to stand in the middle of every bit of chaos. You are allowed to perch somewhere peaceful and protect your energy.

A very wise bird.

After the osprey adventure, Finn and I made a second stop at a local urban park.

A gentleman walking by had told me there was a barred owl family there, including owlets.

Owlets. That one word was enough to send me into full wildlife photographer excitement mode. I have been trying to photograph owlets and have had no luck so far. So off we went, full of hope, curiosity, and possibly unrealistic expectations.

Finn and I searched high and low.

We looked into trees. We listened. We scanned branches, trunks, shadows, and every mysterious lump that could possibly be an owl.

No owl. Not even an owl-shaped leaf. Eventually, we were just about ready to leave. And then the crows started going absolutely wild. If you spend enough time watching birds, you learn to listen to crows. Crows are the neighbourhood alarm system. If they are yelling, there is usually a reason.

And that reason is often: predator.

I followed the sound, looked up, and there it was.

A barred owl.

The barred owl landed on a tree branch for just a moment before one of the crows swooped in and struck it on the head.

Rude. Effective, but rude.

The owl then moved into a denser cedar tree where it had more protection. The crows followed, of course, because crows are nothing if not committed to the bit.

They hopped around the branches, cawing and scolding and making sure the entire park knew there was an owl in the area.

And the owl?

The owl was gloriously unbothered. It watched them. It yawned. It gave a soft “who cooks for you” hoot. It stretched one little foot. Then it started to close its eyes.

I want to be that level of unbothered by chaos around me.

Truly inspirational.

The barred owl’s feathers were breathtaking up close through the lens. Its soft brown and cream barring blended beautifully into the cedar shadows, almost like it had been painted from forest light and bark. The patterning on its chest looked like delicate brushstrokes, layered and textured, while its rounded head and dark eyes gave it that classic barred owl expression, adorable, wise, and slightly otherworldly.

Those eyes. Barred owls have deep, dark eyes that look almost black, and when this owl looked at me through the branches, it felt like it was looking directly into my soul. Not in a scary way. More in a “I know things you are not ready to know yet, tiny human with the large camera” kind of way.

It was incredible.

There is something about owls that feels ancient. They are soft and silent, but they carry such presence. Even surrounded by crows yelling their tiny feathered opinions, the owl remained calm, watchful, and rooted in itself.

The barred owl felt like a message about inner calm.

It did not fight the crows. It did not panic. It did not waste energy proving itself. It simply moved to a safer place, watched the chaos, and stayed centered. That is a powerful lesson.

The owl reminded me that we cannot always control the noise around us. We cannot stop every crow from cawing. We cannot prevent chaos from showing up in the branches of our lives.

But we can choose how we respond. We can seek shelter. We can observe. We can breathe. We can stretch one little foot and take a nap anyway.

The owl’s message felt clear: Stay calm. Trust your instincts. Protect your peace. You do not have to match the energy around you.

And honestly, I needed that.

Meanwhile, my Aunt walked Finn below.

And Finn, surrounded by all this woodland drama and spiritual symbolism, decided the playground sand was much more interesting than the owl.

A barred owl was sitting above us like a mystical forest guardian, and my kitten was basically saying: Yes, yes, very nice. But have you seen this sand and grass?

Priorities.

What amazes me most is that this all happened in just a few hours. Nothing major. Nothing far away. No remote wilderness expedition.

Just a local university, an urban park, a 600mm lens, a new drone I am not quite ready to use yet, one kitten, one helpful stranger, my Aunt, and a morning full of wildness.

This is urban wildlife.

We often think of wildlife as something “out there,” somewhere far away in forests, mountains, or remote coastlines. But wildlife is here too. It is nesting on our stadium lights, hunting over our fields, hiding in our cedar trees, raising young in our parks, and carrying on with its wild, messy, beautiful life right beside us.

This morning reminded me that we can make space for the wild in our everyday places.

And we can remember that even in urban spaces, nature is not gone. It is adapting, surviving, teaching, and sometimes eating a fish while its siblings yell from the nest.

Incredible. Absolutely incredible.

And to think, I only went out because Finnegan woke me up early.

So I suppose the final spiritual message of the morning belongs to Finn: Wake up. Go outside. Life is happening. Also, sand is amazing.