Owl be seeing you #phenology

The trees in our neighborhood are about 75% or 80% bare of leaves, enough so that the mylar aluminized balloon that appeared late last Spring is visible again. The flashing on a sunny day is a real irritation so we'll tend to that next week when we get back from our weekend "Up North." Lack of leaves made it easier to notice one of our favorite neighbors stopped by for a visit. Return of a barred owl to the trees on the North side of the house made my day yesterday.

barred owl on bur oak

Photo by J. Harrington

Owls are among our favorite birds. We're not sure why, although the eyes, the facial expressions, the swiveling heads, the quiet flight and the consumption of small rodents may have something to do with it. It's been too long since we last reread Laura Erickson's Twelve Owls, illustrated by Betsy Bowen or Intriguing Owls, by Stan Tekiela. We'll put those on the stacks to be read this Winter, while we're curled up nice and warm. (As an aside, we're looking forward to Winter and the turning of the year because we already have Betsy Bowen's 2018 calendar to hang.)

"who-cooks-for-you?-who-cooks-for-you?"

Photo by J. Harrington

For the record, the fact that Harry Potter's owls (real ones, not the Ordinary Wizarding Level [O.W.L.] exams) have been written about by Laura Erickson, as Professor Mcgonagowl, doesn't hurt our continuing affection for and fascination with owls.

In the process of taking the photos above, we also made some limited progress on a seasonal chore. We removed a window screen so we wouldn't have the screen distorting any pictures. We did the same the other day in one of the windows of the room where we often write. Wild creatures are much less troubled by photographers inside a house than by those that try to sneak up outside for a better "shot." No screens and clean glass help compensate for skittishness on the part of subjects.

                     A Barred Owl

By Richard Wilbur

The warping night air having brought the boom

Of an owl’s voice into her darkened room,

We tell the wakened child that all she heard

Was an odd question from a forest bird,

Asking of us, if rightly listened to,

“Who cooks for you?” and then “Who cooks for you?”

Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,

Can also thus domesticate a fear,

And send a small child back to sleep at night

Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight

Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw

Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.

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