I've made my peace with ospreys.

I had a bad experience-traumatic-but now I can look into the steely eyes of the fish-hunting raptor without diving for cover.

It began innocently enough; a balmy evening, the swing of the bat at G.T. Bray, the setting sun.

Then, it hit me.

On the side of the head.

I reached up to explore what it was-and smooshed it into my hair.

Osprey poop.

Or more precisely: the droppings of 'Pandion haliaetus.'

The baseball players I was photographing laughed and pointed; my feelings about the situation were less amused.

But that's all in the past now. I'm on good terms with the fishermen of the sky.

As long as I have my hat on.