A Voyeur Locks Eyes With A Ghost
I plunked down my coffee cup in the kitchen at 4 a.m., suddenly up for another mini-adventure. It was just the sort of not-quite-morning I liked; low 40s; soft, thick drizzle; zero wind; a bit foggy. Outside my wooden nest a huge, quiet, secretive natural world, crammed with fascinating animals, sights and sounds, beckoned. I periodically explore it when sensible humans are sleeping.
Thick socks. Jeans and sweater. Boots. Warm down jacket. Snug hat. Out the back door.
From the garage shelf I dragged out a brown, moth-eaten old picnic blanket and a rubber seat pad, shook out my store of patience and arranged myself quietly on the ground by my drained and covered main fountain. In the darkness I was a smallish lump-on-the-lawn.
The rain’s gentle drops landed on my blanket or fell off my hat brim. It’s amazing how distinct sounds are, out here.
When was the last time I’d sat quietly outdoors, bathed in nighttime drizzle and snow?
Ah. In England.
When I lived alone in my family home for two long winters in 2009 and 2010 I’d slip quietly into our forest- called Helen’s Wood- in the wee hours, sit quietly under a tree and listen, often with eyes closed. I shared the forest floor with nocturnal hedgehogs, who’d snuffle around for earthworms, beetles and snails, a particular favorite. When the hedgie found one, the shell would crunch as it was consumed.
In weak English moonlight a red fox often materialized, then soundlessly disappeared. His rank, musky odor (from pungent scent glands and urine) was horribly compelling.
If I were lucky, a badger would show himself.
The wood, perpetually protected, is always full of dark-generated intrigue. I’ve learned to love the deep night because of these enchanting nocturnal sojourns.
Now, sitting on Sunnybank’s damp lawn, I felt vibrations in the air, and registered darker, darting airborne shadows. A cloud of bats, using radar, was hunting insects.
A large Siamese cat soundlessly fence-walked.
A tiny rabbit, her furry chest and paws a shockingly white beacon, sat a little distance away under the giant miscanthus grass, nose twitching. Now and then she’d munch on a blade of grass or a sprig of clover. That pale breast seemed such poor camouflage.
A long time later it began to snow fat flakes; I tried to catch them with my tongue. Finally I rose, stretched, and trundled back inside and upstairs to the back bedroom. Snatching up my monocular (perfect for this one-eyed human) I opened the big umbrella-window and slipped out onto the roof (where I’d scraped and painted the house’s exterior in the late nineties, and where I used to sit for hours scheming how to develop my secret garden). Now, as the temperature registered 35-degrees (and continued to fall) I sat quietly on the rough shingles and scanned the area with my monocular, keeping as still as possible. The weak light in the alley kept the darkness less than jet-black. Snow continued to fall, tentatively at first, then with more intensity. How lovely! Wrapped in my down coat and dark blanket, worn like Harry Potter’s cape, I felt truly invisible up here.
Time passed. My hat brim dripped thick, melting flakes. Plop. Plop. More snow fell.
Then- a flash of white! A large, utterly silent, ghostly presence floated past… The snow-blurred air around me swirled.
In a blink the presence was gone. Open-mouthed I shivered, stunned. What was that?? So large! Absolutely quiet. Visible in whitish flashes…Here it came again! An owl! More specifically, a barred owl floated above me, then dived. I heard a single, tiny yelp. The triumphant owl stood on the lawn where I’d been sitting earlier and arranged her wings protectively around her kill- a mouse. Then she looked straight up at me to glare as I began to rise in excitement, warning me not to come closer!
No worries; I can’t fly, mate…
She devoured a mouthful of mouse to make a point, then, without a sound, rose with her meal and silently flew toward the nearby park, as huge fat flakes fell in abundance.
She'd come and gone. Like a ghost. Silent. Deadly. Beautiful.
I squeezed back inside the bedroom, closed the window and ran downstairs again to look up barred owls on Google. They’re large birds, often wearing pale to white feathers overlapped with brownish vertical bars, which are prominently displayed on their breasts and beneath their wings. Wingspans can stretch to 50 inches. Barred owls eat rabbits, mice, moles, and yes, even cats. Nighttime is mealtime. And in the snowy dark, I’d become a voyeuristic part of her life on the fly.
I’ve suspected that barred owls hunted here, from finding the occasional feather, and scat. I’ve heard their deep, distinctive call, like a large dog’s bark.
“Who cooks for yoo… Who cooks for yoooo”….
Type in ‘barred owl sounds’ on Google, and bang on the ‘YouTube’ woodland video. Their call is arresting!
Here’s the thing: that owl and I aren’t that different.
We’ve both learned
-how to acquire meals and life-mates;
-how to hone skills and wisdom;
-how to maintain the same nest for years;
-how to protect what is ours;
-how to share our bounty with our offspring.
And, we both consider feathers, and down, to be essential.
Huh! Now there’s some food for thought.
I plunked down my coffee cup in the kitchen at 4 a.m., suddenly up for another mini-adventure. It was just the sort of not-quite-morning I liked; low 40s; soft, thick drizzle; zero wind; a bit foggy. Outside my wooden nest a huge, quiet, secretive natural world, crammed with fascinating animals, sights and sounds, beckoned. I periodically explore it when sensible humans are sleeping.
Thick socks. Jeans and sweater. Boots. Warm down jacket. Snug hat. Out the back door.
From the garage shelf I dragged out a brown, moth-eaten old picnic blanket and a rubber seat pad, shook out my store of patience and arranged myself quietly on the ground by my drained and covered main fountain. In the darkness I was a smallish lump-on-the-lawn.
The rain’s gentle drops landed on my blanket or fell off my hat brim. It’s amazing how distinct sounds are, out here.
When was the last time I’d sat quietly outdoors, bathed in nighttime drizzle and snow?
Ah. In England.
When I lived alone in my family home for two long winters in 2009 and 2010 I’d slip quietly into our forest- called Helen’s Wood- in the wee hours, sit quietly under a tree and listen, often with eyes closed. I shared the forest floor with nocturnal hedgehogs, who’d snuffle around for earthworms, beetles and snails, a particular favorite. When the hedgie found one, the shell would crunch as it was consumed.
In weak English moonlight a red fox often materialized, then soundlessly disappeared. His rank, musky odor (from pungent scent glands and urine) was horribly compelling.
If I were lucky, a badger would show himself.
The wood, perpetually protected, is always full of dark-generated intrigue. I’ve learned to love the deep night because of these enchanting nocturnal sojourns.
Now, sitting on Sunnybank’s damp lawn, I felt vibrations in the air, and registered darker, darting airborne shadows. A cloud of bats, using radar, was hunting insects.
A large Siamese cat soundlessly fence-walked.
A tiny rabbit, her furry chest and paws a shockingly white beacon, sat a little distance away under the giant miscanthus grass, nose twitching. Now and then she’d munch on a blade of grass or a sprig of clover. That pale breast seemed such poor camouflage.
A long time later it began to snow fat flakes; I tried to catch them with my tongue. Finally I rose, stretched, and trundled back inside and upstairs to the back bedroom. Snatching up my monocular (perfect for this one-eyed human) I opened the big umbrella-window and slipped out onto the roof (where I’d scraped and painted the house’s exterior in the late nineties, and where I used to sit for hours scheming how to develop my secret garden). Now, as the temperature registered 35-degrees (and continued to fall) I sat quietly on the rough shingles and scanned the area with my monocular, keeping as still as possible. The weak light in the alley kept the darkness less than jet-black. Snow continued to fall, tentatively at first, then with more intensity. How lovely! Wrapped in my down coat and dark blanket, worn like Harry Potter’s cape, I felt truly invisible up here.
Time passed. My hat brim dripped thick, melting flakes. Plop. Plop. More snow fell.
Then- a flash of white! A large, utterly silent, ghostly presence floated past… The snow-blurred air around me swirled.
In a blink the presence was gone. Open-mouthed I shivered, stunned. What was that?? So large! Absolutely quiet. Visible in whitish flashes…Here it came again! An owl! More specifically, a barred owl floated above me, then dived. I heard a single, tiny yelp. The triumphant owl stood on the lawn where I’d been sitting earlier and arranged her wings protectively around her kill- a mouse. Then she looked straight up at me to glare as I began to rise in excitement, warning me not to come closer!
No worries; I can’t fly, mate…
She devoured a mouthful of mouse to make a point, then, without a sound, rose with her meal and silently flew toward the nearby park, as huge fat flakes fell in abundance.
She'd come and gone. Like a ghost. Silent. Deadly. Beautiful.
I squeezed back inside the bedroom, closed the window and ran downstairs again to look up barred owls on Google. They’re large birds, often wearing pale to white feathers overlapped with brownish vertical bars, which are prominently displayed on their breasts and beneath their wings. Wingspans can stretch to 50 inches. Barred owls eat rabbits, mice, moles, and yes, even cats. Nighttime is mealtime. And in the snowy dark, I’d become a voyeuristic part of her life on the fly.
I’ve suspected that barred owls hunted here, from finding the occasional feather, and scat. I’ve heard their deep, distinctive call, like a large dog’s bark.
“Who cooks for yoo… Who cooks for yoooo”….
Type in ‘barred owl sounds’ on Google, and bang on the ‘YouTube’ woodland video. Their call is arresting!
Here’s the thing: that owl and I aren’t that different.
We’ve both learned
-how to acquire meals and life-mates;
-how to hone skills and wisdom;
-how to maintain the same nest for years;
-how to protect what is ours;
-how to share our bounty with our offspring.
And, we both consider feathers, and down, to be essential.
Huh! Now there’s some food for thought.