owling

Last night between a rousing game of memory, and a cup of hot chocolate, we heard a faint noise.  We all paused, and were as quiet as a two and four-year old will allow.  Another high pitch trill and we all ran to the porch.  The rain was coming down, so our four heads just peered out the door for another one or two hoots.  Then, only the most avid of us birders kept going towards the sound despite the cold wet ground, (despite the real true frostbite on the tips of two of my toes too…).  It wasnt the normal barred owl I hear, which gave me a renewed hope to catch sight of the flying bird of prey.  Without a thought, all four of us gathered back indoors, bundled up and headed out.  Walking up and down the street with the silence of Owl Moon, with our eyes pointed to the darkening sky, warm little hands in mine, I felt such gratitude.

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Turns out owling at such a young age is a little scary.  Miles and I wandered around the streets, a bit farther than his little brother wished to venture at the moment, whispering when words absolutely must be spoken, and looking and looking and looking.  We never saw the owl, and the sky was black.  My boys, all three of them, gave up the hunt.  I moved forward.  I wandered the woods, finding perches by a dead tree, that seemed to fit the mold for a nice cozy owl hole.  I sat and waited and listened every now and then pretended I could take pictures in the dark.

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