Grateful for Owl Play

Local Screech Owls. Photo by Tim Brox

For the past few mornings, I have been regaled by the rhythmic mutterings of a great horned owl that has taken up residence in my neighbor's pine.  Now, I know that his song has not been limited to recent mornings any more than it has been directed towards me specifically, but I still feel fine about taking these serenades as signs for me.

And what exactly do these monotoned musical signs signal? Certainly, the answer is more complicated than the three-note calls I've been enjoying.  On the one hand, these pre-dawn songs act like a fishing lure,--an avian Daredevle Spinnie topped by a three-pronged trouble hook--snagging my mind and not letting go. Viewed through this lens, it seems obvious to me that the owl is pulling me outdoors, calling me to an afternoon spent in tall-grass prairie or tick-infested cottonwood stands.

On the other hand, those three notes leave me filled with longing, knowing my now-absent children are navigating the sometimes rough waters of life "out there"  while I lay atop cool sheets and listen. This interpretation is more difficult for me, since it is much harder to holler instructions from the sidelines than to just hop in the game and grab the ball myself.

But I do not want to live my children's lives for them.  I know this.  And so,  I repeat that thought when I need to, during those times when I hear the distress or isolation in their voices.

Fortunately, sometimes, the avian signs of an early-morning owl song intersect and I find both refreshment and resolution.  Take this afternoon, for instance, when Allison and I have a date with Pioneers Park, where, I suspect, we will alternate between calm silence and quiet anchoring.  It is a salve I am excited to apply.

Tonight, if I remember to pray before I fall asleep, I will give a nod to the neighborhood owls, whose songs both comfort and awaken me.