There is an owl that lives by my house.
I don’t often hear her and I’ve only seen her fly over once, but she’s there. I’m not sure why I call her “she”, but I always have.
Yesterday morning I was up early, it was still dark, moon and stars still out. It was cold and crisp and I heard her from the trees up above. That distinct owl sound echoed through the moments just before dawn. It was deeper and slower than I’d heard before. I’m not sure if the difference was real or in my head. She usually sounds soulful and a bit sad, but yesterday her call was rich and warm.
I looked up and wondered, actually I imagined, her nest full. Now I know enough about birds to know that the babies grow up and leave the nest. I’m pretty sure they don’t ever come back, but standing there looking up into the darkness of such a huge sky, I told myself owls were different. Her nest was full, her grown family had come home and they were surrounded by the warmth of her nest. She was happy.
As nuts as it sounds, I connected with her as another mother who’s nest is again full for a brief time. My cheeks chilled and I was pulled back into reality, but for a moment, it was really something.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Feather Bed.