It’s that balmy, much-loved time of the year in Memphis, Tennessee. You can sit outside and watch yellow leaves fly past, if you’re willing to risk being hit on the head by an acorn. The bonus will be the sounds the wind makes, the rushes and shushes that rise and fall like ocean waves.
Two days ago I was outside on my deck with Charlie at 3 p.m. Far, far away in the woods, almost too far, a Barred Owl called faintly, “Who cooks for you?” I stopped to listen and make sure I wasn’t imagining it, and I smiled when it called again, and kept calling. I waited with chill bumps. It hooted again, closer now, about 1/4 of the way between its original point and me. My body began buzzing with adrenaline. The next call was halfway to me, and the next wasn’t far from the edge of the woods behind my fence. I sighed with bliss. I can’t prove it, but my soul felt that it was coming to remind me to save its place.
Because I have a connection with the owls that nest every winter in my hollow red oak, hearing their calls is always like a shot of joy and a promise of a visit. At night it’s like a lullaby. This was the first time I’ve heard one approaching like a faraway train, from the recesses of the woods that line the banks of the Wolf River, back home to me.
I’ve heard them occasionally, all summer and fall, in the evenings, around sunset and later in the dark. I’ve also heard an occasional mid-morning hoot. My hunch two days ago, which Google confirmed, was that they’re beginning to pair off, especially the two-year-olds who have never mated before, in anticipation of nesting and mating in January, and the older owls with mates are reinforcing their established territories.
Lots of my friends, near and far, have seen or heard Barred Owls in their own environments. They agree that it’s an other-wordly experience: their calls, their stares, their silent flights with wings expanded like parasails. Some of my friends are jealous. It’s unlikely for a bird with a wingspan as big as a five-year-old child to nest in a tree less than thirty feet from a human’s house.
If you don’t have birds nesting in your yard, you can still experience their magic. You never have to go far to hear their calls. If you sleep with your windows open, you don’t even need to go outside to be awakened gently, calmed, and soothed. A Carolina Wren, a Wood Thrush, or a White-throated Sparrow can give you a rush of joy or a lullaby, too.
