The owls are doing their spring routine, singing (if you want to call it that) since January. I know this because there is a decaying silver maple near my bedroom window, and because I am a light
sleeper. These are not the small shivery-voiced owls, but the magnificent Great
Horned, who has a deep voice. This vocalization always becomes a duet after a few minutes, because invariably another owl shows up, parks (himself? herself?) in a nearby
tree and begin a call and response. A-Whoo-Whoo-Whoo! A-Whoo-Whoo-Whoo! Sometimes it goes on for thirty minutes, but I never get tired of it.
Remember those marvelous Farside cartoons, created
by a wildlife biologist? I acknowledge that he is the author of these quips, but as
I lie there in the moonlit semi-darkness imagining their conversation, it becomes either something along the line of “Hey Baby! Hey Baby!” if they are male and female--or, if male, it's doubtless the classic turf war of taunts and insults: “You and what army?”
I love lying there, hearing, even in surroundings mostly cleansed of original flora and fauna, that something of the old natural world survives. More than that, it's still ongoing, and letting me in on the ancient game of love and war as it begins again. After a little, though, as the song continues, I also worry. If any cats are out, I have to get up, navigate the staircase while half asleep and open the door. Usually, whatever feline is out has been prudently hiding on the porch and doesn't waste time getting inside. Bubo Virginianus isn’t nick-named the “winged tiger” for nothing.
I love lying there, hearing, even in surroundings mostly cleansed of original flora and fauna, that something of the old natural world survives. More than that, it's still ongoing, and letting me in on the ancient game of love and war as it begins again. After a little, though, as the song continues, I also worry. If any cats are out, I have to get up, navigate the staircase while half asleep and open the door. Usually, whatever feline is out has been prudently hiding on the porch and doesn't waste time getting inside. Bubo Virginianus isn’t nick-named the “winged tiger” for nothing.
Nature reminds us of her presence, assuring us
that, more as less as the groundhog predicted, winter will soon be just a memory.
In town, a lawn full of crocus is in bloom, one that was planted by some long-ago owner. Even the tulips and daffodils are giving it the old team try, poking out their green heads. All these “Simple Gifts” from the planet we are lucky enough to live upon fills me with
happiness.
~~Juliet Waldron
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