They called to each other just after midnight. Across the street from our house, high in the Eastern pine trees fronting a cloudy firmament, they emitted their haunting cries. It was the first time I heard them so close. These were not the cartoonish hoots of some anthropomorphically-wise bird, they were the deep guttural moans of the great-horned owl. A pair of them were talking on an almost-winter midnight.
Andy had come in from putting the recycling out and told me to come back outside to listen. We stood together in the darkness and heard the owls. Neither of us spoke – the owls had complete command of the night. Andy was right, they sounded almost like monkeys, making them sound almost human. The art of communication, not solely the province of people as we all too typically assume, was being illustrated in primal fashion. There was something gorgeously pure about the way they spoke to one another. We felt like eavesdroppers, intruding on a private moment between two people.
Andy had told me of nearby owls before, in the summer, but I never got to hear them. On this night, when all was quiet and cold, I listened to their conversation, carried on without care or concern of our presence. Andy looked up at the trees too, listening and watching for any sign of movement.
When we were back inside he explained how they might raid squirrel nests for food, and I realized we hadn’t seen any squirrels in a couple of days. I thought it was the snow keeping them at bay, but maybe something more sinister was at work. I went back outside for a moment and heard one last haunting call. Their presence felt sacred, their power both thrilling and vicious. In the warmth of our bed, I was grateful for the roof over our heads, and the lock on our windows. Then something else – a feeling of protection from such magnificent creatures who might, quite literally, be watching over us.
