Throughout the quickly darkening evenings and the reluctantly lit mornings of winter, a tawny owl was our companion. The owl had several regular hooting-spots in the trees that triangulated our block. Never seen, this night-ghost cloaked in the blur of the night and the silhouettes of trees.
When I heard the owl from our third floor concrete tree house, the space around shrunk, turning everything into tree. Time reeled back to boyhood; the thrill of such rare sounds that hinted at something secret and hidden in the woods of childhood. The tawny owl’s hooting is different to what you think you know. It’s not the recognizable ta-wit-ta-woo of storybooks and cartoons. The call is strangely strained and fast, scared, even, scared to reveal the secrets. One unusual February evening, our hooting friend suddenly had a rival. In the darkness he began his normal declarations only to find, a few moments later, a distant reply, a rumour of the trees complaining of dusk. Over the next thirty minutes, the reply grew stronger as the rival male moved in. I lived intensely in between the hoots, hesitating to breath, conscious of the seconds being counted in feathers. Almost exactly at eight, the owls were in competition: a flurry of calls, a race to see who would win to summon that great milky eye from behind the eastern mountains. As suddenly as they started, one stopped, then the other. By eight-thirty there was an odd, exhausted silence and the gloom of adulthood returned. Questions hang in the air and the moon demanded attention. The last owl for the winter was in the Piedmont area of Italy. I opened the window and heard a sad screeching scarring the early March night. Somewhere close on the langhe hills a barn owl was calling, moving, calling, clawing out its night’s territory, terrorizing the vineyards with ghosting wings and merciless beak. On the crests of hills stood illuminated castles and churches, constellations of village lights as if upturned towards a grape-speckled sky. I closed the window, surrendering to the unknowing of the frosting night, grateful to the owls for reminding me of secrets that can still be found.
1 Comment
Stephanie Cassidy
7/11/2019 10:58:27 am
It's nice to be able to share these brief tawny owl moments with you Matthew. How amazing to have been able to hear something so elusive, letting your ears be what your eyes cannot see.
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorA poetic-essay style blog with a limit of 365 words. 365 like the days of the year - my name being one of those days! Archives
March 2020
Categories |