Nocturnal Visitor

Two nights ago I was up. I got out the fleece blanket to snuggle under on the couch, and set out to update my planner and read a book until I either fell asleep or it became too late to.

I heard a curious cooing sound, like the muffled sound of a mourning dove in the shrubs outside. Mourning doves are frequent visitors to our feeders. But this was the pitch black, freezing early hours of the morning. After listening a few times, I turned out the lamp, wrapped myself in the fleece and squeezed myself between the over-sized Christmas tree and the front window. I listened.

I heard it again, much clearer now, and I was sure. It was an owl. And not just any owl. A great horned owl, one of the largest owls in North America. I tried to find him. He was close by, I could tell. But it was too dark with no moon, and the one streetlight did more to blind me than to illuminate the area. I listened, though, for about fifteen minutes, until the whoo-ing stopped.

I was still thrilled. I haven't heard an owl in years. And never in the city. We do live near a cliff, and great horned owls like to nest in cliffs. So maybe he'll be back. Arch made me promise to wake him up if I ever hear it again.