Owls

I hear them through the window when I try to sleep, but rarely can; owls calling, echoing through the night. only two species will appear, at least those are the ones I hear, the Barred and Great Horn, hidden from my sight. The Barred cried out, “Who cooks for you?!” as if on a musical que, a refrain it sings safe within the dark. I sometimes see them in the day, their dish-shaped faces strange and gray, blend with the trees as if they were a part. The Great Horn hoots, lower, heavy, sounds almost hypnotic to me, brings gravitas quite fitting to its size. With tufted crown, a tree monarch, their louder calls gives me a start, sadly, so far, I’ve never seen one fly. There are others, the books do preach, the Barn, the Grey, the tiny Screech, but so far they’ve not come around my house. Hollywood uses them for fright, yet somehow I don’t think that’s right, and realize every time I heard them 'round that all the darkness people fear, that we hide from when it draws near, are just the norm for the owls aloft, a time to make their bellies full, the dark nothing you can’t handle, and that, I find, is a comforting thought.