This just happened at 8:50 this morning: I was locked in a gaze with a barred owl.
Having just left a peaceful, lovely experience in the redcedar cathedral, I was back on the hiking trail moving briskly toward home.
Out of the corner of my left eye I saw a low-flying avian moving from north to south. As it passed over my head, I heard an unusual, fat rushing sound: like the air thickened for a moment, like wings were moving through tufts of soft material, like the atmosphere four feet above me had turned to a solid.
I also experienced a prolonged shadow over my head and face as the bulk of something large passed between me and the dappled sunlight. The shadow didn’t move across the top of my head; it enveloped me. A sure sign that this avian was larger than a crow, pileated woodpecker, or even the oversized ravens I’ve been seeing around the island this summer.
I nearly stumbled as I wheeled around quickly to look at the flight path to my right. And what I saw stunned and elated me. A very healthy barred owl had settled on a tree branch about ten yards in front of me and perhaps fifteen feet high.
Keeping my eyes on the owl, I fumbled with my pocketed phone so I could turn on the camera.
And then it happened. He saw me. His swiveling head rotated in my direction and his fig-black eyes connected with mine. I was mesmerized and froze in place.
I felt a bit like prey. I wondered what he was thinking about me: threat or curiosity? something to flee from or pursue? inconsequential or necessary?
Listening carefully, I waited for the fluffy, feathery being to convey a message. It was hard to listen attentively because there was a racket behind him which kept distracting both of us. I considered whether it was a nest of babies who knew a parent had returned and sat nearby. But then I saw a squirrel skittering along branches and sounding a kind of alarm call I hadn’t heard before.
I waited, my whole being on pause.
Then the owl preened, looked around, lifted each wing to pluck at the feathers underneath, lifted a leg to his sharp beak.
He stared at me for a while longer. I continued to watch, but I also talked to him.
You’re so beautiful. And massive. I’m not a threat to you. I love you. Thank you for spending a few moments with me.
A few more head turns, preenings, and stares. A total rotation of the body on the branch. A final round of eyes fixed on mine.
And off he flew to the east. I breathed deeply, then resumed my hike. That barred owl passed over me on the trail two more times before I lost sight of him.
* * *
I am not a stranger to owls. I have seen them in the wild many times, and in captivity several times. My neighbor saw one sitting on the 35 mph sign a few months ago; though I ran downstairs, slipped my feet partly into sandals, and drove to the location within five minutes of her sighting, I missed seeing the owl. I felt owl wings brush the side of my head at dusk in a campground on the ocean when I was twenty-nine.
I hear the barred owls frequently at nighttime in the trees not far from my bedroom window. Their who cooks for you, who cooks for you call is unmistakable. I don’t mind being woken up by them in the black of night, and I always lift my head off my pillow so I can discern their direction.
But never have I been in a prolonged embrace as I was today with this neighbor, Barred Owl. Our eyes - and beings - seeing, considering, focused on, holding, and acknowledging the presence of each other.
I know that he carries a message. My heart is open and waiting to receive it. I believe it will come - even if I never again encounter this particular owl.
For now, I marvel at his beauty, his alertness, his casual preening, his hulking feathered body, those incredible inky eyes looking into mine.
