Tag Archive | great-horned owl

Evening at the Pond

Apr22

The garden roller coaster is picking up speed. After a nutritious breakfast on the patio yesterday I planted flowers in pots until I’d had enough exercise. Then it was time for lunch. A friend mentioned slicing bananas for her peanut butter sandwich, “nothing as adventurous as your sandwiches,” she said. But that sounded pretty exotic to me, so that’s what I made for lunch yesterday. I had to add a splash of mayonnaise because peanut butter and mayo is a favorite flavor combination. It was delicious!

After tea on the patio later with another friend, as we walked to the gate a pair of mountain bluebirds danced along with us, dropping down into the yard to snag prey then flitting up onto a fence post or a tree limb. The beautiful blue male lit upon the metal owl that Honey Badger gave me years ago. It was a harbinger of this evening’s adventure.

This morning, more planting in pots and garden beds, and I laid out a new soaker hose under the peach tree just in time to see its first blossoms opening.

After everything else today, we all went to spend a quiet evening down at the pond. Wren did her frog patrol, Topaz supervised from a distance, and I simply sat and breathed. It was good to rest in natural peace for awhile. Shadows crept across as the sun lowered beyond the trees and it was time for dinner. Just as I stood to go inside an owl swept over my head on silent wings and lit in the juniper snag across the pond.

In all my years here, hearing them and catching a rare glimpse, this was the closest, longest, most extraordinary encounter I’ve had. I slowly sat back down, mesmerized. Wren, oblivious, kept padding around the pond. I watched the owl evaluate her and then me. I watched that amazing head turn all the way left to look behind, then swivel slowly all the way around right to look behind. I finally breathed again. He and I settled into a comfortable stillness.

After awhile I felt a new tension in the air. He focused beyond Wren off to my left, and when I followed his gaze I saw Topaz staring back at him. This will be interesting…

She slowly crept from her place and slinked toward his tree with a long, low growling moan. Wren noticed this, and followed Topaz, who kept her eyes on the owl and slunk closer, growling intermittently.

Wren remained focused on Topaz, fascinated, while Topaz continued her brazen approach, the owl kept his eyes on her, and I held my breath again watching this slow motion drama unfold, ready to jump and yell if the owl swooped down.

This is truly all the excitement I need, inhabiting these woods among other lives. Wren still hadn’t noticed the owl.

The owl swooped, but off the snag and away from Topaz; Wren startled, barked, and ran some zoomies; the owl landed in a juniper a few yards beyond the fence. There he perched for a long while, until I got too chilled to stay out. Several smaller birds chattered and flitted around the owl, at least two species, but it was too dim and too far to identify them. They didn’t divebomb him as I’ve seen them do with hawks, but flew in and out among the branches of his juniper and others, seeming restless but not overly distressed. Topaz continued to astonish me as she stalked him, slipping through the gate and moving toward the tree. I softly called her name, reluctant to leave yet but not wanting her to get any closer.

She came back, and took a long drink. The three of us sat awhile longer in stillness apart from the birds, then walked back to the house together. I’m grateful for an evening at the pond. By then it was too late for dinner and I’d had a big lunch, so I sat down for a little light reading which tempered the mood a bit, casting our simple adventure in a poignant light. Adrienne LaFrance at The Atlantic warns us that “It’s later than you think, but it’s not too late.” Time is running out, though. Each true-blooded American who treasures democracy must join with others to staunch the wound before our freedoms bleed out. Tell a friend.

This Owl

Mar23

I was texting with a friend just now who lives near Boulder. A friend in DC had texted me. We were all feeling sad for the world.

Is there a meditation for that? I wondered.

I woke this morning feeling as flat and grey as the sky, and that was ok: it was neutral. I accepted the internal clouds and gave myself over to a day off. I need one every week or two, the more the better, and it’s been a hard-pushing ten days. Just internally. Not like I’m out breaking rock. I felt sad for the world and everyone in it

(Except for me, suddenly. And for once, I didn’t feel altogether guilty; I felt grateful.)

Stellar rose from his bed.

Get up, I told myself. I turned my attention to what the night outside might hold: the waxing moon overhead, sky deep cerulean, an evening star, a soft shifting cloud palette of blues and greys. Stellar sometimes likes to linger by the door. I want him to walk with me for several reasons. I started around the south end of the house and heard a Great-horned Owl calling to the north. Suddenly energized, I stopped, listened, again, again, the same call, hoo-hoo hoohoooo… 

I first think to call the owl to stir Stellar’s jealousy and bring him to my side. He’s been known when I’ve talked with owls before to sidle up whining, throw himself on the ground, and roll. If I’m talking to an owl or a tree or anything else in the garden too intently, he used to do that. No more! Either he doesn’t hear, he doesn’t care, he knows it doesn’t matter, or… Still, I hope to bring him to my side, so I echo the owl’s call. Then I think, There’s no reason I can’t call him in, too.

I’ve always believed in Dr. Doolittle, assumed though that I could never really speak to the animals; but now, as I spend more uninterrupted time alone, I reconsider… I had phoebes practically landing on my shoulder last summer. The owl hoots again, after a pause.

Hoo-hoo hoohooooo… another pause. I call back. A pause. He calls again. A pause, then I call back. Then a long silence.

He soars in from the north woods, skimming juniper tops, dark and silent, big, wings outstretched he banks up, perches atop the tower roof. He turns his head and looks at me. I face him looking up, dumbstruck. For a full minute or two we observe one another. Listen, I caution myself, don’t speak. I open my chest and breathe, press my feet into the ground, looking up at his silhouette against the darkening blue sky. Breathe. Open.

I know how smart these owls are. Were I willing to feed him I could train him to come. Instead, I merely want to welcome him, assure him I’m a benevolent force in his world, offer him my home, shower him with my attention, awestruck. Only connect. This is my moment with the Divine. I stand silent, hands in pockets, opening my heart and life to him.

Hoo-hoo hoohooooo… In sync with the rhythm of his call he fluffs and twitches his tail upward, posturing, seeking, watching me. A pause.

Hoo-hoo hoohooooo, I reply. He registers my response, then flies off to the south and disappears.

Did I answer right? I don’t know quite what I said to that owl, but I know it had to be nice. I could hear it in his voice as surely he could hear it in mine.

“You belong.”

The owl feels our pain, and sings his own loneliness.