The Osprey Spa Day and Other Urban Wildlife Shenanigans - May 23, 2026

There is something I deeply love about urban wildlife photography.

It’s the reminder that animals are not somewhere far away in a perfect wilderness untouched by humans. They are here. Beside us. Above us. Around us. Living their lives while we rush through ours. They have adapted as best they can to our cities, our noise, our roads, our buildings, our fences, and even our sports fields.

And this particular Osprey family has decided that a very, very, very tall light pole beside a sports field is home. Not a tree. Not a cliff. Not some dramatic National Geographic ocean-side perch with mist rolling in behind it.

Nope. A sports field light.

Honestly, I respect the practicality. Great view. Excellent security. No one is accidentally climbing up there. Very urban-chic. Very “penthouse with stadium lighting.”

I had been hoping to see this Osprey family again, especially because I have been wondering if there are babies. Every time I visit, I look up at that huge nest with a little spark of hope. Maybe today will be the day I see tiny Osprey heads poking up.

When I pulled up beside the field, though, I was immediately distracted.

Not by the Osprey.

By house finches. They were playing around on the fence, hopping and fluttering, and miracle of miracles, they actually posed for me.

House finches posing. For once.

I had to laugh because normally they are tiny feathered chaos machines. They appear, disappear, hop behind a branch, turn their backs, blink at the exact wrong second, and generally behave like they have signed a legal agreement not to cooperate with photographers.

But this time, they gave me a few moments.

Thank you, tiny fence models. I'm sure your invoice is in the mail. Hahah.

The House Finches felt like a reminder to take time to play. They weren’t doing anything dramatic or rare. They were simply hopping along the fence, fluttering around, enjoying the moment, and for once, letting me photograph them. Maybe that was their little message to me: not every moment has to be serious, productive, or perfectly planned. Sometimes healing comes from letting ourselves be light again. From playing a little. From laughing when tiny birds finally decide to cooperate. From remembering that joy does not always arrive as something grand. Sometimes it lands on a fence, sings a little song, and asks you to pause long enough to smile.

After that, I noticed a Barn Swallow through the fence, collecting little pieces of dried grass.

Barn Swallows are birds I have tried to photograph many times, but they are usually in flight, moving at approximately the speed of a caffeinated rocket. Not exactly my forte… yet.

So seeing one still enough to photograph felt like a small gift.

There it was, busy and determined, collecting nesting material. A tiny builder with wings. I thought it was absolutely adorable. While humans below were playing sports, walking dogs, driving cars, and doing all the human things, this little swallow was gathering supplies for its future.

It reminded me that so much of nature is about preparation. Tiny piece by tiny piece. Grass strand by grass strand. Nest by nest. Life continues.

The Barn Swallow reminded me that building a life happens one small piece at a time.

Then I heard it. The call of the Osprey. Loud. Repeated. Insistent.

I looked up toward the nest and tried to figure out what was going on. The Osprey was calling a lot, and I couldn’t tell what had her so worked up.

Then I looked over.

A Turkey Vulture was circling nearby. Well, that explained it. Apparently, the Osprey had noticed the uninvited aerial guest and was not here for it.

I don’t speak fluent Osprey, but I’m pretty sure the translation was something like: “Excuse me. This is a family neighbourhood. Keep moving.”

And then, just like that, she took off.

She flew from the nest area over to another nearby light structure, where she landed high above the field. After all that calling and drama, she settled in like nothing had happened and spent the next thirty minutes preening herself in the sun.

Not bothered. Not rushed. Not concerned. Just basking. Honestly, I admire that energy.

She had sounded the alarm, handled the situation, relocated to a better perch, and then immediately entered her spa era.

She fluffed. She preened. She adjusted. She sat in the sunlight like she knew she was majestic.

At one point, she tried to walk along the railing, took a few steps, appeared to reconsider her life choices, and then went back to her original perch.

Relatable. Sometimes you think, “Yes, I shall proceed confidently in this direction,” and then your soul says, “Actually, no. Back to the safe spot.”

I moved around the field a bit, trying to find a better angle. Eventually, I sat down on a nearby bench and just watched her.

And she was gorgeous.

White and brown. Bold and elegant. Like an Oreo cookie with talons. A very powerful, sky-commanding Oreo cookie.

I sat there wondering what she was thinking.

Below her, people were living their lives. Walking past. Talking. Driving. Playing. Moving through the day. Most of them had no idea she was even there, perched high above them in all her wild magnificence.

And there I was, sitting on a bench, staring upward in complete awe.

That is one of the things I love most about urban wildlife photography. It reveals the hidden layers of the world. It reminds me that while we are busy with errands, schedules, worries, and to-do lists, another life is unfolding right beside us.

The Osprey reminded me to rise above the noise. To guard what matters. To take up space. To trust my strength. And, when necessary, to sit in the sun and preen like I have absolutely earned the rest.

For me, photographing wildlife becomes a kind of meditation. My mind quiets. My breathing slows. My attention narrows to one living being in front of me. The camera becomes less about getting the perfect shot and more about entering into a moment of connection.

I nodded my head at the Osprey, thanking her for her time, even though she was not in the slightest bit bothered by me. I’m fairly certain she did not care about my gratitude, my camera, or my emotional journey.

As I walked back to the car, still marvelling at her majesty, I spotted one more surprise.

A hummingbird.

A tiny silhouette against the mid-day sun, perched and living its little hummingbird life right in the zone of an Osprey.

I had to laugh. That is either confidence, innocence, or a complete lack of concern for the food chain.

I wondered if an Osprey would even bother with a hummingbird as an appetizer. Probably not. Still, there was something hilarious and impressive about this tiny bird hanging out in the same airspace as a powerful raptor.

Both brave in their own way. Both adapted to the same urban patch of land. Both carrying messages, if I was willing to listen.

The hummingbird reminded me that small does not mean insignificant. Sometimes the tiniest creature in the scene carries the boldest spirit.

I left my Osprey photoshoot with a smile on my face. Not because I had captured the perfect photo. Not because I saw babies this time. But because I had been reminded, once again, that wildness is still here. It is nesting on our light poles. Singing from our fences. Collecting grass through chain-link. Circling above our fields.

And sometimes, if we slow down long enough to notice, it speaks directly to the part of us that needs healing.