This is part two of the owl rescue story. The first essay can be found here.
Our lives were entwined with a Great-horned Owl family for two memorable months. It started with the rescue of a nestling Great-horned Owl on March 3, who was found on the ground next to a tall pine tree. A group of friends and I rigged up a makeshift nest in a nearby tree, using a large plastic tub and ratchet straps. We filled the tub with leaves and branches to make the space feel more natural, and we set the nestling inside.
For the next six weeks, the normally secretive lives of owls were on display in this urban front yard. The nestling owl played hard to get the first week. All I could see were flashes of downy white feathers. I was eager to catch a glimpse of her, so I spent some quality time watching the tub. She grew quickly and eventually raised herself up, peering over the lip of the tub. Her bright yellow eyes were windows into wildness.
I wasn’t the only one following the nestling’s progress. The owners of the homes nearest the owl checked in on her daily. The couple who originally found the nestling on the ground continued their daily dog walk by the site multiple times per day, providing texts to update us on any new activity.
We were all mesmerized by her presence. Man, could she stare! Looking into her eyes manifested strong emotions. I felt proud of our efforts to help her, happy that she had made it this far, and fearful that she could disappear at any moment. Mostly, I relished the mystery inherent in our relationship.
She became part of our daily routine, giving us a sense of agency, purpose, and hope. We all felt this was an opportunity to make the world a little brighter and more full of life. She showed us how much better our lives can be when we are intimately connected to birds and to each other. She was a gift.
We were all rooting for her. She was an underdog, and our love for her grew with each passing day. Rebecca Solnit articulates the contours of our hope for this little owl.
Hope is an embrace of the unknown and the unknowable, an alternative to the certainty of both optimists and pessimists. Optimists think it will all be fine without our involvement; pessimists take the opposite position; both excuse themselves from acting. It's the belief that what we do matters even though how and when it may matter, who and what it may impact, are not things we can know beforehand. We may not, in fact, know them afterward either, but they matter all the same …
She grew quickly, and on March 15, her facial disc started to appear. She began to look less like a ball of fluff and more like an owl. Her growth and development were fueled by many small animals.
The nestling adventure turned into a story. We all settled on the notion that the nestling was female. The dog-walking friends started calling her the “bucket owl.” Others referred to the lawn near the nest as the "carcass yard." Rabbit heads, rabbit feet, crow feathers, and bits and pieces of unknown animals were strewn about. Another friend's dog swallowed a whole rabbit head only to throw it up back home in their yard. It was an exciting time. I received daily updates on her status, and I visited regularly to capture images of her.
But her life was not without danger. The Crows and Cooper's Hawks were a constant threat. They both harassed the adult owls, but the formidable adult owls turned and faced the crows and hawks, prepared to fight. The nestling owl watched this ancient drama play out around her. She peered over the lip of the tub nest while bobbing and weaving. The crows seemed to sense that the nestling was off-limits, and I never saw them come within 10 yards of her. At least one adult owl was usually perched on the lowest branch of a pine tree 10 yards away. This limb was slightly elevated above the tub, and I imagine the adult could reach the nestling in two seconds.
When the nestling owl was near-fledging, she became more active and started stretching and flapping her wings. All that movement attracted squirrels. They would climb down the trunk above the nest, stop two feet above the tub, and watch her. They appeared to be curious. Around this time, a thunderstorm blew through, and we got over an inch of rain in one night. The next morning, the nestling owl was soaked, and her feathers were compressed by moisture. She had a completely different shape, and she did not look happy. When I sent the photo below to my wife with no explanation, she thought it was a hawk in the tub and asked if the hawk had eaten the owl! The owl eventually regained her owl shape as her feathers dried out and regained their loft.
On April 5 at 6:30 p.m., my friend texted me a photo of the young owl perched on a limb in the maple tree above the nest. She had fledged! She looked so composed, perched out in the open. Her primary feathers were growing out, but she still looked like she was wearing fuzzy pajamas.
This was a dangerous time for her. She did not know how to fly and was awkward when she walked on tree limbs. The next day, she appeared in a magnolia tree across the street. My friend captured a video of her flapping her wings as she slid down a limb and fluttered to the ground, where she sat up and stared at him. This is how owls learn to fly - they navigate between branches and flap away, strengthening their wings and gaining skill. If they end up on the ground, they climb back up the tree with their talons and beaks!
What’s true here is delight.
What’s true is the flight
of a soul testing her wings
and finding them air-worthy.
What’s true are all the many
and self-judgment,
challenges of life, from pain
all arrayed like laundry
on the line so I can decide
which ones to fold and which
get relegated to the rag pile.
What’s true here is a
glorious day blown in
on storm winds. What’s true
is the choice to be awake,
alive, and joyous in the
face of whatever this
day brings. What’s true
is giving thanks and taking
none of this for granted.
Danna Faulds
She spent a few days in the magnolia tree, and I hung out with her, taking pictures. In the last image I captured of her, she is winking. Maybe that was her way of saying goodbye. She flew off into the night with her parents and has not been seen since. I miss her now that she is in hiding. I walk through the neighborhood full of desire to get one last look at those eyes of fire.
I am made of dirt and grit and stars and river, skin, bone, leaf, whiskers and claws. I am a part of you, of this, nothing more or less. I am mycelium, petal, pistil and stamen. I am branch and hive and trunk and stone. I am what has been here and what is coming. I am energy and I am dust. I am wave and I am wonder. I am an impulse and an order. I am perfumed peonies and the single parasol tree in the African savannah. I am lavender, dandelion, daisy, dahlia, cosmos, chrysanthemum, pansy, bleeding heart and rose. I am all that has been named and unnamed, all that has been gathered and all that has been left alone. I am all your missing creatures, all the sweet birds never born. I am daughter. I am caretaker. I am fierce defender. I am griever. I am bandit. I am baby. I am supplicant. I am here now, Mother. I am yours. I am yours. I am yours.
Eve Ensler
That was wonderful, Bill, thank you so much! I actually think this would make a fabulous young children’s story perfect for reading a bedtime, showing how connected we all are on this earth and our responsibilities to each other. 🙏🏻
Ah, she is off to learn how to hunt her own rabbit by light of the moon and stars.
She left a path of change for the people who saved her. A camaraderie of hope, laying the foundation of possibility.
I do believe she was winking at you in thanks. After all, it shouldn’t be so hard to believe that another being could understand gratitude and love.
Thank you for gifting us this story.